Courage and Sacrifice
by Manniness
Summary: "Katniss will not be another sacrifice in their Games. I will not allow it." Peeta Mellark will do whatever it takes to make sure the girl he has secretly loved for years returns home the victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. He is willing to die for her... but is he willing to live for her? Canon AU. Peeta POV. Peeta/Katniss. Everlark.
1. The Reaping

**A note from Manny:  
**This all started because I was afflicted with a burning desire to let Peeta tell the Hunger Games story his way. (I'm serious about the burning bit. Really.) My Peeta muse was adamant that not only would things have turned out differently if he'd been the narrator, but that Katniss would have turned out differently, too. And, well, with Peeta working his magic, I'm inclined to believe him. So, here we are. Peeta is taking the reins from Katniss and telling the story as he thinks it should have happened... and Katniss has a second chance to really shine and be awesome.

So, get ready for some serious Peeta FEELS. You will feel for this boy. Oh yes, you will.

Spoilers: "Courage and Sacrifice" is based on the Hunger Games movie, but I'm borrowing several details from the books and embellishing dialog and futzing with character development. Don't expect it to mirror the books or movies perfectly. It won't, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. I just write compulsively, following docilely after my muse.

Theme music: "Apologize" by OneRepublic

* * *

**The Reaping**

* * *

"I volunteer! I volunteer!"

No. No, not that voice. Not that girl. Not _her._

I can't watch. I stare straight ahead, glaring at the weathered and warped stage – what I can see of it through the crowd in front of me, past profiles and untrimmed hair and wrinkled shirt collars. Everyone is looking toward the aisle. Everyone except me because there is no one there. There is no one stepping forward to die.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

I clench my jaw, fist my hands, squeeze my eyes shut. This is not real. I did not just hear her voice. I did not just hear her say those words. I didn't hear them because they're not real.

"District Twelve's very first volunteer!" Effie Trinket, the district escort, nearly squeals with glee into the microphone.

_No. You're wrong._

I am not listening to Primrose Everdeen's screams of denial. I am not listening to the Peacekeepers escorting her older sister toward the stage; there are no measured footsteps taken in women's shoes up to the platform. I hear none of this because there is no volunteer. Katniss wouldn't… She wouldn't—!

"What's your name, dear?"

I hold my breath, willing the terror-scape to break. _Please. Not her. Not her!_

Silence presses in on my ears and I hold onto it. As long as she doesn't say it, it's not true. _It's not real. It's not—_

"Katniss Everdeen."

My jaw hurts. My hands ache. My lungs burn. I sob in a breath through my gritted teeth just as Effie Trinket coos, "I bet my buttons that was your sister, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

_No. No, no, no-no-no-nononoNO!_

"Let's have a big round of applause for Katniss Everdeen!" Effie Trinket trills. She claps daintily and I hear the reaping slip flutter in her grasp. The microphone picks up the sound, bouncing it off of the buildings in the square until it becomes indistinguishable from the feathery flapping of birds' wings as they escape, abandoning the girl who could charm them into silence.

They will not listen to Katniss Everdeen sing again. And neither will I.

The pain of that thought forces my eyes open. I watch as, one by one, everyone in the square salutes her in silence. My hands are still fisted. If I loosen my fingers, I'll break, crack down the middle like a hot brick under a shock of ice water. I refuse to say goodbye to her. This is not goodbye. It's _not._

But it is.

My mind blanks with defeat. This is it. I've lost my chance. I'll never tell her. I'll never speak to her. But no. I can. I _could._ My last chance will be when the tributes are allowed to say their goodbyes to their friends and family in the Justice Building. I could go. I could ask to see her one last time.

_And say what, idiot?_

I swallow thickly, determined not to glance in my mother's direction, determined not to flinch at what she'd say if – _when – _she finds out that I've gone to see Katniss Everdeen. I will not let her stop me. I'm going to tell Katniss how special I think she is, how strong, how amazing and talented and beautiful and—

"Peeta Mellark!"

What?

The boys in front of me shift nervously, glancing back at me, shuffling away as if I'm ill with something contagious. Well, forget them. I need to figure out what I'm going to say to Katniss. She has to win. She has to win and come back home to Twelve because… because…!

Someone sighs out a relieved breath behind me and that tiny sound snaps me out of my daze.

Oh.

That was my name, wasn't it?

Oh, God.

I blink once and then I force my feet to move. If I don't, the Peacekeepers will drag me up there and that would be too humiliating for words. I walk toward the stage, glancing right and left, waiting for someone to put out a hand and stop me, tell me that there's been some kind of mistake, that it wasn't my name that was called.

No one stops me, so it must have been real.

I take the steps one at a time, staring at them as I ascend, wary of stumbling. I will not stumble in front of Katniss. I may not be as brave or as strong as her, but I will not fall to pieces.

I make it to the top and look out over the crowd. I've never seen the square from this angle before. It's terrifying and I know deep down that I will never forget a single bit of it. I could sketch this from memory years from now.

_You don't have years. More like **days.**_

A hand on my arm startles me. I turn at the rasp of impractically long fingernails brushing against the fabric of my shirt.

"Well go on, you two. Shake hands," Effie Trinket invites.

Shake hands. Right. Okay. I reach across the space between us in an automatic gesture and the instant her hand fits against mine, I realize that Katniss Everdeen is my district partner and we're expected to try and kill each other and—

I can't.

I glance up at her through my lashes, a shock of panic zipping down my spine. God, what the hell am I going to do?

And then our hands fall away from each other and I'm furious with myself. I hadn't even been paying attention to the feel of her palm against mine, her fingers and skin. I can't remember a single thing about it. My regret follows me into the Justice Building. I'm simmering with disappointment – just like the last time our paths had crossed. Why had I just tossed her that bread? Why hadn't I gone out in the rain and handed it to her? _Why?_

_Because you're a coward._

Well, I suppose this is my last chance to fix that, isn't it?

I'm still trying to figure out how to do that when my mother's voice breaks the oppressive silence in the room I'd been directed to in the Justice Building.

"District Twelve might finally have a winner this year," she almost sneers. My father and brothers look up at her in amazement. Hell, _I _look up at her in amazement. She can't mean me. I've never done anything in my life to warrant that kind of faith. I've never stood up to her, never fought back, never—

"She's a survivor, that one," my mother continues, her face pinching as if the admission tastes like two-week-old buttermilk.

Of course Katniss is a survivor. Still, I'm amazed that my mother and I can actually agree on something positive regarding a girl from the Seam. That, in and of itself, is a miracle.

"I'm sorry, Peet," Duff says suddenly and I almost wonder if I'd just imagined my mother's remark. But no, it was real. Duff proves it by continuing to speak of my co-tribute: "She volunteered for her little sister. I should have—"

"No!" I almost shout, instantly horrified. Duff is eighteen. This is his last year of eligibility. "No, I'm glad you didn't." And I _am _glad. Relieved. "It's fine this way. You guys don't need me." Baxter and Duff can work in the bakery. They're actually a lot better at baking than I am. The only thing I'm especially good at is decorating the cakes. And who cares about that stuff, anyway? The people of District Twelve have never made pretty things a priority. So my family doesn't need me. They never have, really.

I guess, in some weird way, that makes it okay that I'm going to die in the Games. Like this is my sole purpose in life. I was born so that someone more useful doesn't have to die this year.

The only person who has ever needed me was a little girl on the brink of starvation. In that single moment in the rain one late winter afternoon over five years ago, I'd been needed. I'd been useful. Maybe I could be again.

The sound of my dad's hoarse sob interrupts my thoughts. Without a word, I go and sit down next to him on the aged sofa. He puts his hand on my shoulder. My eyes mirror his, burning with tears. I don't try to fight them. A man shouldn't cry alone and these moments are my dad's last gift to me, to show me that he loves me, that I matter. "You're a good boy, Peeta," he rasps thickly.

My throat closes up. And then Baxter sits down on my other side. He would've ruffled my hair if our mother weren't in the room, but she is, so he somehow resists the urge to put me in a headlock. Duff stands awkwardly nearby, still looking a little shrunken with guilt. I'm just glad he's not the kind of person to feel like he was shown up by Katniss' display of self-sacrifice. If my mother had loved him any less than me, she probably would have screamed for him to take my place. Just for the sake of family pride. Or merchant pride, more like. Townie pride.

My stomach clenches, rolling with heat, and bile climbs up my throat. I swallow it back down.

I brace my elbows on my thighs and lean forward to contemplate the hardwood floor. "Don't worry about me, dad."

We don't say anything else and our time passes in silence. My mother is the first one out the door when the Peacekeepers come. I get brusque hugs from Baxter and Duff.

"You take care, Peeta," my dad says quietly, gripping my shoulders firmly as if he has to force himself to push me away.

I sigh. "You know I'm not…" I stop. I'm not cruel enough to finish that thought aloud. I rephrase, "Katniss is going to come back."

"I know," he answers. Our eyes meet and I know that he knows. Maybe he's always known. Ever since that first day of school when he'd pointed her out to me in an effort to ease my nerves, in an effort to help me make a friend. The irony is that she's the only person in our grade at school that I've never spoken to.

My dad gives my shoulders one last squeeze and then the door closes behind him.

That's it then. No going back. I'm in this for Katniss.

I do my best to cling to my commitment, but when I'm sitting in the back of the car which is transporting us to the train station, I'm suddenly overwhelmed. I'm never going to see my home again. I'm never going to run into Katniss on the street and charm her with the perfect words, words that I just haven't thought of yet. I used to be convinced that they existed, that one day they'd come to me in a burst of inspiration, that all I had to do was be patient.

But I was too patient, and it's too late now. I'm never going to hold her hand, duck behind the bakery with her to steal a kiss, whisper secrets and dreams and promises in her ear. None of my humble wishes are ever going to come true. I'm leaving them here to die a quiet, lonely death, starved of hope.

I can hear Effie Trinket rattling on about our schedule. All I can do is look out the window and try not to cry.

The moment I step onto the train, a strange peace descends. Or maybe it's not peace but emptiness. The dreams have fallen away. I have lost everything. What's the point of being afraid now? Soon, I'll be dead. This is the beginning of the end.

I stare at the grandness surrounding me and I think how unreal all of this is. None of this finery matters. What matters now is Katniss. She needs me. She just doesn't know it yet.

Strength infuses me at the thought. I can do this. I can make my life – my death – mean something. I have a purpose.

I just hope the odds are in my favor.

* * *

**Parting thoughts:**

So now, when I watch the movie, I know what Peeta must have been thinking during the reading of the names, and the goodbyes to friends and family in the Justice Building, and the car ride to the train station. Or, my version of his thoughts, anyway. Which I rather like. So, yeah, my world is now complete. Groovy.

Also, I like this parting moment between Peeta and his dad. It might explain why Mr. Mellark went to sit with Katniss (in the novel) before she was taken to the train.

What do you guys think of the "real" versus "not real" theme entering the story this early on?

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Mentor":**

_Without the familiarity of my home in Twelve, all the pretenses have been stripped away. I'm looking at myself clearly for the first time, peering into the mirror that reflects my heart._

_I don't like what I'm seeing._

**Recommended fic:**

"The List" by silvercistern - Thanks to this marvelous story, I could FINALLY understand what it is Peeta sees in Katniss. Without this fic, I wouldn't have started drabbling in Peeta's POV.


	2. The Mentor

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. I've added new things of my own, though, so my apologies in advance for any confusion.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I do have some chocolate around here somewhere and I'm pretty sure that's mine.

Theme music: "Nothing" by The Script

* * *

**The Mentor**

* * *

It seems pointless to care about what I should have said to her all these years. I glance at Katniss, sitting silently in her soft, blue dress, expression stoic. There are no perfect words. There's no point in trying to win her heart. Hell, there isn't really much of a point in getting to know her. I've already made my decision. I get on with it.

"Have you ever met him?" I ask and then belatedly elaborate, "Haymitch?" I know that Katniss trades her kills at the Hob, which is where Haymitch buys his liquor. I wonder if they know each other, if they like or hate each other. The former should make my job easier.

She doesn't answer with words, but I feel a wall of ice rise up between our seats. Great. She's shutting me out. My first instinct is to give ground, but I know that's not going to work. I regroup.

"You know, Katniss, he is our mentor," I hear myself say and the instant the words leave my mouth I know I've made a mistake. She'll disregard him out of pointless spite now. Haymitch Abernathy is the one man who's going to be our lifeline during the Games and she doesn't give a damn.

I blame my frustration for what I say next, "Look, if you don't want to talk to me, that's fine. I just don't think there's anything wrong with asking for a little help!"

And suddenly I'm pinned to my seat by her angry stare. Her eyes are so cold. So furious.

She remembers the bread.

So do I.

God, can't I do anything right?

The sound of the car door puffing open is like a breath of fresh air. I'm grateful for the distraction and I track Haymitch's movements as he shuffles over to the sideboard and selects his preferred poison, looking to us when he asks for ice… as if we'd know where to find it. As if we'd know where to find ice in May. As if we even know what we're supposed to be doing.

The ice bucket is empty and we're days away from fighting for our lives.

The man's skewed priorities astound me. I have to give myself a shake in order to work through my shock.

"Okay, right, so what's the plan?" I begin just as soon as Haymitch flops down into the seat across from mine. He mocks my eagerness. I badger him. "You're supposed to give us advice!"

"Advice?" he parrots idly, as if he's really interested in the concept I'd proposed. "All right. Here's some advice: embrace the possibility of your eminent death and _know,_ in your heart, that there's nothing I can do to save you."

Seriously? _Seriously?_ What sort of bullshit is this? The man is a complete bastard and I want nothing more than to dump his rumpled ass off of this train, but I need a mentor. I need advice on how to help Katniss get sponsors and…!

And why is he being so damn uncooperative?

"Why are you even here?" Katniss snaps, sounding nearly as annoyed as I feel. These are the first words she's spoken in my immediate vicinity and, somehow, that single question seems fateful.

Why am I here, indeed? That is the question of the hour.

"Oh." Haymitch waves his tumbler of liquor at us. "For the refreshments."

Suddenly, I'm furious. I reach for the glass in our mentor's hand, eager to knock it away, to show him that I'm serious, Goddamn it, and he's going to help me save Katniss whether he likes it or not!

In the process, I learn my first lesson of combat: choose your battles wisely. Preferably on territory that gives you an advantage and then follow through with a level head. I lay awake in my room that night glaring at the ceiling, feeling raw from my humiliation. Not only had I been put in my place in front of Katniss, but I'd been shut down when I'd followed him out of the car and tried to talk to him alone after that.

Still, that hardly compares to the look Katniss had given me when I'd spoken to her before he'd shown up looking for booze and ice. This is unbelievably frustrating. All I want is a little of her trust, but maybe I don't need it in order to accomplish my goal. Or maybe I could work with her distrust. Could I possibly provoke her into competing with me for Haymitch's support?If I show an interest in getting Haymitch's help, would she give the man a chance?

It occurs to me that this kind of mind game would probably work on my mother.

God.

Had I seriously just had that thought?

I had.

I struggle against the knot in my throat. I can't believe it, but… I think it's kind of true. Katniss had once been such a happy girl, full of songs and smiles, and then her father had been killed and she'd shut herself off from everyone but her sister. I could count on one hand the number of times she and I had ever made eye contact. She was a wall. Impenetrable. There had to be a heart in her somewhere. Her love for Prim proved it. And, over the years, I'd become obsessed with seeking it out, cracking through her defenses, dreaming of the day she might spare me more than just a passing thought, maybe even care about me. That had been my big dream, after all. The one I'd left behind in Twelve… along with the rest of my life.

My fists clench in the bed sheets. What the hell am I thinking?

But I think I know.

I've been chasing the dream of Katniss because I'd given up on earning any affection from my mother and no one in Twelve would argue that winning over Katniss Everdeen is one of the greatest challenges there is. What have I been thinking? Do I honestly believe that if I can get Katniss to like me that I'll be able to convince myself that my mother really gives a shit?

Oh, God.

I have to get out of here.

I erupt from bed and stumble down the corridor toward the dining car, seeking an outlet, an escape, a window. I know there isn't much to see. It's the middle of the night. Why is it things are so much clearer in perfect darkness?

Without the familiarity of my home in Twelve, all the pretenses have been stripped away. I'm looking at myself clearly for the first time, peering into the mirror that reflects my heart.

I don't like what I'm seeing.

I'm not really paying attention, just following the line of soft lights along the hall, so I don't bother peering through the window on the door before I step into the car. I turn toward the nearest expanse of shadowy scenery and freeze.

I'm not alone. For an instant, I wonder if that's her, if she's here. And if so, does that make me incredibly lucky or the exact opposite?

But it isn't her. It's Haymitch. He's watching the dark shapes of the landscape beyond sweep past, holding a flask in his hand. For a moment, I consider speaking, but no. I'm not really ready to resume my campaign to help Katniss. I need a moment. I need to think.

What am I doing?

I join Haymitch by the window, crossing my arms over my chest. The moon is only half full but I can make out the dark, sketchy line of wilderness below the raised tracks.

What am I doing?

I'm going to help Katniss. That's a given.

But why am I doing it? Because I believe she's worth saving? Because I _want _to believe she's worth saving? Do I actually see my mother when I look at her? Do I see the unattainable? The affection I'd never been given?

My shoulders slump. My arms drop. I brace myself against the window ledge, my back curving as if I'm bracing myself for a whipping. I certainly feel beaten. Torn flesh would never be as painful as my thoughts.

...because I've just realized – really _realized_ – that I have nothing to go back to. My mother is indifferent and nothing I do will ever change that. My dad loves me, but he has chosen his marriage over me. My brothers care, but they won't stand up for me. We're not a family. Maybe we never were.

I squeeze my eyes shut, suck in a deep breath, and let the next revelation roll through me.

I grit my teeth and force myself to be honest: I want Katniss. I want her because I am as broken as she is. I selfishly want her to heal some part of me that will never stop bleeding. I want her to fix me.

I disgust myself.

All the more reason to go ahead with my plan.

I have no future with Katniss. There will be no trust, no friendship, no shared secrets. She doesn't want me. Hell, she doesn't even like me. But maybe I can work with that.

Hardening my heart and firming my resolve, I glance sideways at Haymitch. He's watching me. The look in his eyes is contemplative.

I say, "You told us there's nothing you can do to save us, but that's not really true, is it? You can help save one of us."

"And, let me guess, you want it to be you?" It's not a guess. It's an opening. It's a chance to change my mind, but I won't. I'm saving Katniss. End of story.

"No. I want it to be her."

Haymitch sighs tiredly. I can only imagine how tired he must be. This is the man's twenty-fourth year as a mentor. None of the kids he's taken to the Capitol have ever come back home alive. "Think about this, kid—"

"I have." My tone is final. "But she won't accept your help all on her own. She won't cooperate. She's so… proud."

Haymitch chuckles. "Tell me something I haven't already figured out for myself."

I straighten. "I'm going to try to get you to mentor me. That'll make her come around."

"Nothing like a little competition, eh?"

"Something like that, yeah." I turn my attention away from the moonlit landscape and meet his searching gaze. "Just don't act like you're doing her any favors. Make her work for it or she'll never accept it."

"Is that the voice of experience talking?"

"Failure," I correct, clenching my jaw shut to keep from screaming.

"You in love with her?" he asks me, point blank.

"I thought I was." And it hurts to rip the camouflage off of that truth. It hurts so bad to realize that I was fascinated by her for my own selfish reasons rather than because she'd coaxed it out of me. At some point, caring about the girl who sang the Valley Song had turned into something desperate and dark. Katniss can't save me. It's not her responsibility to heal my broken heart. God, how much longer would I have gone on believing that she could? For how long could I have continued lying to myself?

A long, long time.

That truth unsettles me enough to confess, "I thought I could… someday."

Haymitch shakes his head sadly. "Pathetic."

Yeah. I know.

"So you're gonna die for her instead. How bleeding romantic."

His tone is mocking. Sneering. I shove my hands in my pockets and watch the world roll by. My sullen silence is answer enough.

When he chuckles darkly, I grit out, "Just tell me how to play it."

"She won't thank you for going behind her back like this," Haymitch lightly informs me.

"What does it matter? In the end?" My actions are my own and if they help her in the arena, so much the better. If she never finds out, that would be ideal.

"True." He nods. "Okay, kid. I'll help you out."

"Thanks."

He laughs again. It's a rusty sort of sound. "Oh, no. It's my pleasure," he snarks with saccharine sweetness and then he leaves.

For half a minute, I'm angry. I'm angry that no one gives a damn that I'm about to trade my life for hers. No one cares about what I'm giving up so she can have a chance to make it back home to her sister, to her mother, to Gale Hawthorne. I'm angry. I'm furious! …and then I'm not. I can be important, and no one has to know about it but me. That's fine.

It's fine.

I go back to bed, but doze fitfully, jerking awake every time I start to fall asleep, worried that I'll miss the sunrise and find myself already falling behind. If I can't get Katniss to work with Haymitch, she'll be doomed.

But I wake with the dawn as usual, and I'm the first one in the dining car. Effie comes in shortly thereafter, collects a cup of coffee, and tries to talk to me about all the wonderful things I'll see in the Capitol. Before I'm shipped off to die.

It's a relief when Haymitch slouches in, dressed in a bathrobe. His beard stubble drips with water. He collapses in his seat with a drawn out groan.

"Don't feel like you have to talk to me or anything," I say quietly. "I just want her to see me trying to win you over when she gets here."

Haymitch snorts derisively. "I see a good night's sleep did wonders for your enlightened self-interest."

"I don't have any."

"That's obvious." He tosses a couple pieces of toasted rye and pumpernickel bread onto his plate. "The arena will change that before you can blink, boy. Nothing like taking a good, hard look at your own mortality to wake you up."

"Not going to happen."

"It'll happen. You watch. They'll turn you into a killer yet."

I can't think about that. I can't. Because it's true. I will become a killer if it means Katniss can go home. "So long as I accomplish my goal."

"Hah. You won't live past Day One."

"I might."

"Right. First chance you get, you'll get yourself killed." Before I can argue, he asks wearily, as if he's already had this conversation twenty-four times before, "What's the first thing you do in the arena?"

"Run. Find shelter."

"Okay. Say you run. You've got nothing but the clothes on your back. It's nighttime and the temperature's dropping like bird shit." He looks at me, daring me to pick up the story and reel out the plot.

"So, I light a fire."

"Well, that's a good way to get killed."

"What's a good way to get killed?"

And there she is. Katniss stands beside our table in her blue dress from yesterday, looking beautiful and distant and completely unreachable. She also moves with inhuman silence and stealth. I hadn't even seen her enter the room. Haymitch's taunts had distracted me from hearing the door whoosh open. He's right: I'm going to die in the arena embarrassingly fast.

"Oh, joy," Haymitch continues without missing one sarcastic beat. "Why don't you join us?"

I withdraw from the conversation, watching as Katniss moves in, establishes her territory, sets up her boundaries.

"What's a good way to get killed?" she persists.

"Pass the jam."

She doesn't.

My entire body jerks at the sound of the knife striking the table.

Effie gasps and scolds her for marring the mahogany.

"Look at you," Haymitch muses aloud, looking mildly amused despite the blade that had been a twitch away from skewering one of his fingers. "You just killed a placemat."

I stare at the knife sticking straight up from the table. Haymitch actually has to exert visible effort to pull it out of the wood. He reaches across the table to fetch his own marmalade, talking about sponsors, but I can barely hear him.

God, what the hell had I been thinking? Katniss could kill me with _a butter knife._ She doesn't need my help. She doesn't need anyone.

"You really want to know how to survive, sweetheart? You get people to _like_ you."

And then I see fear in her eyes. I try not to stare – I try to focus on Haymitch and keep up the pretense of having a vested interest in my own survival – but I can see her start to give up. Haymitch is making her work for it, just like I'd told him he should, but she's just shutting down, abandoning hope.

How can she give up so soon? Doesn't she have any idea of the effect she can have?

She cannot give up. I won't let her.

And then we're there. The Capitol. We've arrived.

I escape to the window, absorb the artificial skyline and feats of modern engineering. I urge Katniss to join me, to wave and smile at the people on the platform as the train glides to a graceful stop. One of them might be a future sponsor.

She stays in her seat. Haymitch returns her knife and advises her to keep it.

Damn it. I can see I'll have to do everything myself.

* * *

**Parting thoughts:**

Is it just me or, in the movie, does Peeta seem to fade into the background whenever Katniss and Haymitch interact? Once the idea occurred, I wondered if it could be intentional. I wondered if Peeta could be subtly pushing Katniss toward trusting their mentor. Sneaky of him, ey?

As for Peeta's epiphany about his mother and what she and Katniss have in common, don't flip out on me. Peeta will figure out later (much later) that Katniss is nothing like his mother. You will see.

As for updates, I have about 50,000 words written on this fic thus far (and still writing), so updates should be pretty regular.

And, I will love you forever if you take a moment and fangirl with me by leaving a review. Fangirling the Peeta FEELS is, like, the best team sport EVER.

**Snippet of what's to come next in "Boy and Girl on Fire":**

_I lean toward her so that she can hear me over the roar, "Come on! They'll love it."_

_Katniss glances at the crowd as if to confirm my prediction, and I dare to reach for her once more. I shouldn't have played upon the fear I'd seen on the train earlier. I know she doesn't know how to handle people. But I don't know how else to handle her._

**Recommended fic:**

"It's Not Like That" by justadram - I love her "Tangled" and "Alice in Wonderland" works. So, when I first began my search for "Hunger Games" fanfic, I started with her writings and I have no regrets. Check it out. You'll love it.


	3. Boy and Girl on Fire

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Things are starting to diverge a tiny bit, but I'll be sticking to the basic storyline... at least as far as the first book goes.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. I own some fuzzy orange socks, though, which are pretty epic.

Theme music: "For the First Time" by The Script

* * *

**Boy and Girl on Fire**

* * *

Katniss hasn't glared at me since we stepped off the train.

I feel like I'm witnessing a miracle in action.

We'd spent most of the day apart, but still. Given the ordeal we'd endured separately at the Remake Center, you'd think she'd be peeling paint off the walls with her scowl. She isn't. She looks strong, confident, and powerful in her black costume.

The look in her eyes reminds me why my stomach tightens whenever I'm near her, why my hands feel unsteady and my mouth goes dry.

I don't understand it. I'd figured out her appeal on the train, hadn't I? I'd exposed my own stupidity. The spell should be broken. I take a deep breath, calming myself. My attraction to her is just habit. It'll fade once my body catches up to my brain.

Cinna approaches us with a flickering flame. He plans to light us on fire. He tells us not to be afraid.

Katniss isn't, but I am. I have no idea what's going on. Why, after a few hours apart, does the sound of her voice make my breath come in shallow gasps? Her eyes are smoky and mysterious. Mesmerizing. Her hair glistens in its intricate braids. I wonder how long it will take her fingers to unweave it. I wonder how long it would take _my _fingers to clumsily but carefully accomplish the same task. Standing next to her on the chariot I feel like I'm being engulfed in flames, all right. Just not the ones flickering in our wake as the horses trot forward.

We emerge to the enthusiastic screams of the crowd and I spot Katniss' face from where an image of it has been projected onto one of the screens.

She is glorious.

I glance at her, noting her profile. She's as baffled by the crowd's enthusiasm as I had just been but by now understand. She is magnificent. But she is only a girl on fire and there are sponsors out there who are looking for an additional spark. Following my first instinct, I reach for her hand.

She twitches away from me, flashing a furious glare in my direction. I would have cringed if this weren't so damn important. I urgently need her to wow the crowd, to make them go over the top. She needs this. It has to happen. Somehow, I have to get her to cooperate.

Struck by inspiration, I lean toward her so that she can hear me over the roar, "Come on! They'll love it."

Katniss glances at the crowd as if to confirm my prediction, and I dare to reach for her once more. I shouldn't have played upon the fear I'd seen on the train earlier. I know she doesn't know how to handle people, but _I _don't know how else to handle her.

I touch her hand. She allows it. I quickly interlace our fingers and raise our clasped hands in the air between us in victory. This _is _a victory for me. A small one, but mine nonetheless.

As I smile and wave to the crowd, I focus on the feel of her hand in mine. The last time we'd touched, I'd been too distracted and numb to pay attention. I pay attention now.

Her hand is warm, her fingers slender with the barest hint of callouses. Shouldn't her hand be rougher? Of course it should. She must have gotten the same torturous body polish that I'd been subjected to.

Damn it.

I feel as if I've lost something. A missed chance. I should have taken care to notice the roughness of her hand back on the stage in Twelve. That would have been real.

Despite my disappointment, I don't let my smile falter. Not until President Snow speaks and then a single sentence, just a handful of words, makes me panic:

"We salute your courage and your sacrifice."

Heart in my throat, pulse racing with sudden fear, I look at Katniss.

_Not her._

That's all I can think because thinking anything else will annihilate me right here in the middle of the square, surrounded by all these people, under the cold stare of the president himself.

Katniss will not be another sacrifice in their Games. I will not allow it.

"That was amazing," Cinna compliments us about ten minutes later as I help Katniss down from the chariot. I'm frankly dumbfounded that she's letting me. Maybe she's still in shock from the reaction of the crowd.

Portia squeals from beside our mentor, "Ooh! We are all anyone's going to be talking about!"

"So brave," our stalwart guide drawls provokingly.

Katniss gives Haymitch a droll look. "Are you sure you should be near an open flame?"

I laugh suddenly and loudly. Katniss twitches and looks at me like I've lost my mind.

About time she clued in to that.

Something draws Haymitch's gaze over my shoulder so, rather than answering her, he waves us toward the elevators. I glance behind me and see the boy from District Two smirking at us. I don't think I'm imagining the flicker of bloodlust in his gaze as he smiles at Katniss. I shift closer to her as she moves away. I watch him for a long moment, warning him off.

His smile widens.

Shit.

Effie glories in her role as Capitol escort, showing us around the penthouse suite, but I couldn't care less. I can't get that silent, steady stare out of my head. The boy from District Two is dangerous… and I'm pretty sure he wants Katniss' name on his kill list.

I thought I wouldn't have to worry about this for a few days. I shouldn't surprise me that I was wrong. Well, maybe it's a little ahead of schedule, but I guess that just gives me extra time to wrap my mind around it and come up with a game plan. I'm not going to complain: any advance warning I have when it comes to keeping Katniss safe is a blessing.

Dinner is awkward. Haymitch confirms my suspicion that the boy from Two has a hell of a lot more training than he has any right to. He's a Career. So is the girl from Two and the boy from One. Possibly both tributes from Four. Plus, the boy from Eleven is a giant and if he teams up with the Careers, I'm pretty sure it'll be all over for the rest of us, for Katniss. Unless I can somehow get a bow and some arrows in her hands. And keep the Gamemakers from constantly trying to kill her.

Oh, yeah. This is gonna be a cakewalk.

"I hear you can shoot," Haymitch segues suddenly, his surprisingly sober gaze on Katniss.

She looks up, looks down, pokes at the food on her plate. Shrugs. "I'm all right."

"She's better than all right," I object. My knee-jerk reaction is to defend her to anyone except my mother, who isn't here. "My father buys her squirrels. He says she hits them right in the eye every time." As every gaze around the table lands on me, I realize that I sound proud of her. Katniss gapes at me. I feel myself start to flush.

Then her head whips back around in Haymitch's direction. "Peeta's strong."

"What?" I cough. Where is this coming from? Why is Katniss defending _me?_ She doesn't even _like _me.

She continues, "He can throw a hundred-pound sack of flour right over his head. I've seen it."

More than that, she'd noticed it. Me. She'd noticed _me._ My sudden case of nerves drives me to downplay the situation. This is a lesson I've learned well in my life; nothing good comes from standing out, from drawing attention to yourself. Not unless you've got a smile to hide behind. I'm too startled to smile, so I dodge, duck down, and hide. Figuratively, speaking.

"I'm not going to kill anyone with a sack of flour," I scoff.

Katniss turns back to me and rolls her eyes. "No, but if someone comes after you with a knife, you'll have a better chance of winning."

"I have _no _chance of winning!" I just about shout. "None!" I'm panicking now. I'm very aware of this. Katniss shouldn't have noticed me, but she did and I don't know what to think about it. It's too late for either of us to do anything about it. She shouldn't be defending me because _I'm _the one who is, literally, dying to defend _her._

And then, to make my humiliation complete, I hear the following words being spat from my mouth: "Do you know what my mother said to me at the Reaping? She said District Twelve might finally have a winner this year. But she wasn't talking about me! She was talking about _you."_

And I just happen to agree with her. Katniss will be this year's victor. I'll do everything I can to make sure of it.

Two seats down, at the head of the table, Haymitch is watching me, remembering the deal we'd struck on the train. His gaze is too sharp, too penetrating and analytical.

I look away and all I see is Katniss. I see the little girl collapsed at the base of my family's apple tree in the cold, winter rain, too weary to go on. I see the burnt bread rolling toward her in the mud. I look at Katniss in the rain and I see myself.

_Coward._

With a calm I don't truly feel, I lay my napkin down beside my plate. "I'm not very hungry," I mutter, excusing myself. No one tries to stop me.

I retreat to my room and stare at the night view beyond my window. There's a remote on the table. I'd tried it earlier, after my shower, but I leave it where it is. There are no images stored in its memory that will soothe the ache in my chest.

Haymitch would call me pathetic.

He'd be right.

I can't keep retreating every time things get hard. I can't keep giving ground every time I encounter an unexpected obstacle in my path. I can't afford to. Katniss can't afford for me to.

Suddenly furious with myself, I push myself off of my too-soft bed and, uncaring of the hour or the fact that I'd already had a shower before dinner, I start going through my wrestling workout and warm-up. The physical exertion helps me burn through my anger. For the first time today, I feel productive in a good way. I've accomplished something, even if it was something that only I can feel.

I have to maintain my strength, mentally and physically, because Katniss is right. Strength is important in the arena. It could mean the difference between her life or death.

After an hour of calisthenics, I dive into the shower. The buttons I randomly press give me a pulsating back massage then squirt me with suds that smell like roses. Great. I should have quit while I was ahead. By the time I finally manage to rinse all the rose-scented soap off of myself it's going on midnight. I towel dry before I discover the automatic drying station.

Damn it.

Irritated all over again, I get dressed and stomp out of my room. My plan is to prowl the main rooms of the suite until either the flower scent dissipates or I get tired enough to fall asleep despite it. After a few passes along the line of windows in the living area, I brace myself on the wide, seat-like ledges and glare out at the darkness. This is the same pose I'd adopted on the train last night. Just like last night, I do my best to ignore the ghost of my reflection in the glass.

And then a voice speaks, and it isn't mine.

"Your mother shouldn't have said that," Katniss informs me gruffly.

I whip around, my heart hammering in my chest. "Whoa! Can't you walk like a normal person?" I gasp.

She tenses, and then relaxes. Amazingly, a slightly satisfied expression passes over her face. She's pleased. I'd just given her a compliment.

Even though it had been unintentional, it makes me more confident. I shift and lean back against the window ledge, crossing my legs at the ankle.

"Nope," she tells me and I feel the corners of my mouth quirk up.

"Yeah, well, with as much normal as there is in the world, I guess you wouldn't need to add to it."

Her brows rise. She tilts her head to the side as if she's trying to decide what I am: prey or predator.

"There's no point in being normal anymore," she says.

I sigh out a chuckle. Wow is she right about that.

She moves diagonally through the room, perching on the back of the sofa with her slippered feet on the cushions. She folds her hands together and braces her elbows on her lap. I watch her contemplate the way her fingers interlace and I remember holding her hand in the chariot, lifting it up, being enthralled by the secrets in her eyes and the flames reflecting off of her shoulders and skin.

She whispers yet again, "Your mother shouldn't have said that to you. At the Reaping."

I experience a moment of shock when I realize that she feels badly for me. When I remain mute, she looks up at me through her lashes and speculates with more sympathy than I could have ever imagined she'd possess, "But maybe she thought you needed to hear it. Maybe she thought you'd fight harder just to prove her wrong."

Oh, how I wish it were so, but it isn't. I shake my head. On a sigh of defeat, I confess, "No, she didn't. Actually, she looked pretty pissed when she said it." That last thought is actually kind of amusing. I like the idea of Katniss infuriating my mother.

At last, Katniss lifts her chin. Her stare isn't cold this time. Nor does she use it to evaluate me. It demands an explanation. Nothing more, nothing less.

I shrug. "You know how she feels about the people who live in the Seam. It's ridiculous." I've always been baffled by my mother's discrimination.

A long moment passes before Katniss returns to the point she had probably been trying to make: "But she did say something."

I frown, thinking about this last, softly uttered confession. "Your mother didn't?"

Now it's her turn to shrug. "She promised to be there for Prim. That's enough."

Oh, God. "Katniss…"

"No." Her whisper cuts through the air between us. "I don't expect anything more from her. She doesn't have much to give. Hasn't since..." She clears her throat. "She hasn't had much to give in a long time."

A long time? As in the last five years? As in ever since Katniss' dad had died in the mines?

Katniss gives me a look that confirms these thoughts and warns me not to voice them. "It's not as bad as it used to be," she offers, probably to avoid any pitying remarks from me.

I don't know what to say. I'd had no idea that Mrs. Everdeen still lingers in that dark place. I'd known that Katniss supports her family by poaching, but I hadn't noticed that it was still as necessary today as it had been five years ago.

I want to hug her, hold her, pet her messy braid… but I know she won't let me.

All she'll let me give her are words. Well, okay, then. I cock my head to the side and ask playfully, "Wanna trade?"

She shoots me a glare, but there's hardly any hostility to it. She drops her arms and the tension evaporates from her shoulders. "What a mess," she observes and I'm not sure if she's talking about the two of us or our mothers.

"Yup," I agree. "But you're incredibly lucky to have a younger sibling. They're awesome. And I'm speaking from years of experience."

For a second, I don't think she's going to get the joke.

She blinks, snorts inelegantly, and shakes her head as if she can't believe I'd just said that. Truthfully, I can't believe it, either.

"You're…" She trails off uncertainly.

I still can't get used to this: Katniss Everdeen, uncertain. I don't think I'd ever seen her look uncertain back in Twelve. Not since the day after I'd tossed her that bread and our eyes had met across the schoolyard just before she'd looked anxiously away. I remember that she'd stared, mesmerized, at a cheery yellow dandelion smiling up at her from beside her shoe. From that moment on, there had been no such thing as uncertainty for Katniss Everdeen.

"I'm…?" I prompt, clinging to my playful tone and disarming smile, "Witty? Charming? Funny? Possessed of much wisdom and many words?"

Her lips twist into an expression of exasperated sarcasm. "You," she restates, enunciating carefully, "are right about younger siblings."

I don't dare to ask her about her sister or keep teasing her. This truce is too tentative for that, but I'll take it. Oh God will I take it.

I offer her a wide grin and watch her fight the urge to return it with one of her own. Katniss Everdeen is a fighter, but I'm persistent, and I swear – right then and there – that I'll get a smile out of her if it's the last thing I do.

* * *

**Parting thoughts:**

So, if you happen to watch the movie with this fic on hand, C&S!Peeta's thoughts should match up with movie!Peeta's reactions... for the most part. I kind of embellished a bit about Cato's interest in Katniss because I am the author and I can do that. Bwhahahaha! *ahem*

You might have noticed that, in the movie, the order of events is slightly different, but here I've put the dinner conversation about Katniss' and Peeta's individual strengths directly after the Tribute Parade (which I think makes a bit more sense rather than waiting until after their first day of training).

Also, we now have some backstory on the whole "Do I smell like roses to you?" comment in Peeta's upcoming interview with Caesar.

As you've maybe guessed, I'm focusing a lot on Katniss' mother and Peeta's in this fic. Or, more generally, on what it means to be family. When I dug a bit deeper into the story, that's where I ended up.

By now, you all have probably figured out that I love Peeta. He might seem kind of wimpy in these early chapters to you (especially compared with the events in the book), but I'm trying to bridge the gap between a boy who couldn't bring himself to talk to the girl he has liked for eleven years and a boy who is strong enough to take on the Capitol. Small steps, my fellow Peeta fans. Small steps.

Okay. I'm shutting up now! I hope you'll tell me what you think. Flail and squee with me, people. FLAIL and SQUEE.

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Training Center":**

_The look in her eyes takes my breath away. I'd seen that respect before when she'd looked at Gale Hawthorne. I'd seen that pride before when she'd looked at her little sister, Prim. And now Katniss Everdeen is looking at me like that._

_Oh. I think I need to sit down._

**Recommended fic:**

"Stacked Odds" by sponsormusings - What's better than Peeta falling in love with Katniss? Peeta falling in love with Katniss, who is his mentor in the Games... of course! I adore the slow burn of this fic. Bring your own spoon for the UST and enjoy.


	4. The Training Center

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Things are starting to diverge a tiny bit, but I'll be sticking to the basic storyline... at least as far as the first book goes.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. Nor do I own a kimono... which is a real shame, lemme tell ya.

Theme music: "Never Say Never" by The Fray

* * *

**The Training Center**

* * *

"Stick together in training," Haymitch tells us in a surly tone the next morning. "Be friendly."

I find the combination of this words and contrary tone hilarious and, before I can think better of it, I glance sideways at Katniss. Her gaze meets mine. Our sardonic expressions match.

"That's a good start," he grumps. "Stay away from the bows," Haymitch orders Katniss. He turns to me and demands, "Don't show them how strong you are. Save it for your private session with the Gamemakers." He then gestures us away from the breakfast table with an impatient motion of his hands. "Now get out of here."

In the elevator, I compare our training uniforms, which match, and mull over Haymitch's instructions.

"Why does he want us to look like friends?" Katniss grumbles. I know she's asking me, but she isn't looking at me and her tone is the one people use for rhetorical questions.

I shrug. "Probably because it's interesting. Most tributes from Twelve just kind of… wallow."

"Hm."

"Us being friendly will probably surprise a lot of people." And not just here in the Capitol. I can only imagine my mother's reaction. Gale Hawthorne's.

"But what's the point? No one's watching us train."

"The other tributes are. And the trainers. I bet the trainers talk to the Gamemakers and the press." I frown in thought. "There's a lot of airtime before the Games to fill and people in the Capitol have nothing better to do than watch it, right?"

"Oh. Right."

The elevator starts to slow. I take a fortifying breath and offer my hand to her. "What do you think?"

She studies my face for a moment and I strive to keep my expression open, friendly, undemanding. She takes my hand. "I think it's show time," she mumbles.

Show time, indeed. My heart is pounding and I'm trying really hard to keep my cool as the doors slide open and we find ourselves being stared at by twenty-two pairs of eyes. I guess we're fashionably late.

Sweaty, clammy palms are the least of my worries as the male tribute from District Two smirks knowingly at our clasped hands. I'm tempted to lead the way, but I know Katniss won't thank me for it. Her grip tightens and I wait for her to take a step forward before I move. When her fingers slide away, I try not to feel disappointed. We've made our point and there's no room for handholding here in the Training Center.

We stand shoulder to shoulder as we listen to the introductory speech given by the head trainer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katniss glance in the direction of the District Two boy. He's still watching her. She flinches slightly and I shift my weight closer to her, warning him to back off with a glare that puts the one I'd given him after the parade to shame.

He tucks his chin down, looking amused.

And then we've been dismissed and the Career Tributes head directly for the weapons with intimidating eagerness.

I turn to Katniss. "Where to first?"

"Say we tie some knots," she suggests.

"Sounds great."

I sit with Katniss at the knot-tying station, learning how to craft basic snares and looking on with admiration as she quickly demonstrates her proficiency to the trainer. I struggle with my simple configuration while Katniss gets an extended explanation on traps that will work on targets that are a whole lot bigger and more lethal than bunny rabbits.

I'd always known that Katniss has skills in this area, but I'm kind of overwhelmed by how good she is at all this. I'm additionally surprised when she asks about knots for tying yourself to a tree.

"Why would you want to do that?" I ask her, stumped.

She frowns. "So you don't fall out of it while you're asleep." Glancing my way – without glaring – she adds, "Which hurts. A lot."

"Oh. Right." Katniss is planning on sleeping in the trees? I've never even climbed one before. When I confess this, she leads me over to a station with rope and netting suspended from the ceiling for climbing practice.

"I'll go first," she says. "Just remember to keep your shoulders centered and square. And when you move, you have to compensate for the shift in balance."

I have no idea what she's talking about, but I nod in response to her authoritative tone. One thing is for sure, though: Katniss is a natural at climbing. She pretty much _runs _up the netting, her hips swaying with the motion of the ropes beneath her. I know I should be studying her technique so that I don't make an idiot of myself when it's my turn to give it a try, but all I can think about is how completely _lovely_ her curves are and how unbelievably appealing that focused expression on her face is, how being the recipient of it would burn me alive.

I am such a lost cause.

Five minutes later, everyone knows it. I cry out in shock and horror as I smack into the padding beneath the netting, having first lost my balance only midway up and then my grip on the netting itself. In that exact order. Katniss is probably going to cut me loose now. I wouldn't blame her. I can't even climb a stupid net.

"Hey." I look up at the sound of her husky voice. My aches instantly fade and my breath catches. I stare at her as she crouches just an arm's length away, focusing all her attention on me.

I was right. It does burn. I can feel my skin tingle from my scalp to the soles of my feet. I just gape at her like a complete moron.

"Throw that metal thing over there." She nods toward something across the room.

"What?" It takes me a second before I realize that she's trying to help me. She's not suggesting that I try to climb the netting again, probably because she knows I won't be any better at it the second time, but what she _is _suggesting...

I find myself looking at the weights. "No," I argue, turning back toward her, not even thinking about un-sprawling myself from the mat. "Haymitch told us not to show our strengths—"

"I don't care what Haymitch said. Those guys over there are looking at you like you're a meal." I confirm this with a glace. Shit. The Careers look hungry. I turn back to Katniss. "Throw it," she urges.

I watch as she stands up and moves off, my pulse racing. She's said her piece and left it up to me. I pull myself to my feet and debate her suggestion. I've failed at climbing – and pretty spectacularly, too – so my next priority should be damage control. One more look at the Careers pushes me and my instinct for self-preservation toward the weights. I guess Haymitch was right: I do have a will to survive after all.

I select the largest metal ball, curling my fingers around the handle. As I slide it off the rack, I test its weight.

No problem.

But I decide to ham it up a bit, just to make sure I don't give it all away. They don't need to know that I can comfortably throw _more_ than seventy pounds, which is about what this ball feels like. Mounting a nearby platform, I clench my jaw, adjust my grip on the weight, take aim at a rack of spears about ten yards away, and…

Step—

Swing—

Release—

CRASH!

Everyone in the Training Center stops and gawks at me for the second time in the last five minutes. I look right at the Careers, daring them to top that.

Marvel's smirk melts right off of his smug face.

Cato shrugs, muttering, "Not bad."

Clove shrewdly reevaluates me.

Glimmer gives me a look that would have been awesome for my ego if I'd seen it reflected in a pair of Seam grey eyes instead.

I turn my back on them and seek out Katniss. She's watching me, arms crossed over her chest, her lips curved in a small, satisfied smile. The look in her eyes isn't as frankly appreciative as the one Glimmer had given me, but it still takes my breath away.

I'd seen that respect before when she'd looked at Gale Hawthorne.

I'd seen that pride before when she'd looked at her little sister, Prim.

And now Katniss Everdeen is looking at _me _like that.

Oh. I think I need to sit down.

Instead, I suck in a steadying breath and stride over to her, hoping my knees don't give out on me.

"Nice job," she says softly, her smile stretching wider.

I swallow thickly. My hand twitches with the urge to trace her lips with my fingertips. I'd done it. She's smiling for me. For _me._ But I curl my fingers into a fist once and release them, banishing the desire. Her gaze flickers across my shoulders and down my arm, tracking the restless movement.

"Thanks," I say, and she has no idea that I'm appreciative of so much more than just the compliment.

We stand there for a moment in silence. I can still feel the gazes of at least half of the other tributes, but I ignore them. I give her a slow smile, loving how it nudges hers just a little wider.

Katniss takes a step away and, tilting her head to the side, she suggests, "Fire starting next?"

I gesture with my throwing arm. My muscles are steady. The weight hadn't even strained me. "After you."

I'm surprised to discover that I'm decent at starting a fire without matches. Katniss struggles with it until I reach out and cover her hands with mine. Investigating the strength of her grip, I try to ignore the fact that she's _letting _me touch her, so that I can tell her, "I think you're putting too much stress on your knuckles."

"How else are you supposed to do it?" she challenges and I experience a flash of a possible future: I imagine myself crouching behind her, wrapping my arms around her, sliding my hands over hers, pressing my chin against her neck, placing my lips next to her ear, breathing in the scent of her hair…

_Focus, you idiot!_

Right.

I kneel next to her and demonstrate with fresh materials, paying careful attention to how I'd done it so easily. "Sit up a bit and relax your arms," I begin.

She follows my suggestions reluctantly at first, but answers me honestly when I ask if that feels like it's helping. Just because it worked for me doesn't mean it will for her.

"A little…" she admits and then experimentally adjusts her grip to give it another try. Before the hour is out, she's managed to produce a small but cheery flame.

"Nice job," I compliment, earning myself another of her unguarded smiles. I think I could live for those smiles alone.

Damn it. This is not good. I'm supposed to be _not _crushing on her. Aren't I?

At lunchtime, I point to an empty table and follow her as she makes her way over to it. The Careers are sitting together, telling stories about their adventures in training to be accomplished killers back in their home districts. The other tributes space themselves out, one lone person per table. Like little islands of misery.

I can't stand to sit here with Katniss in silence, even if it's friendly silence. The atmosphere is too oppressive.

Drawing in a breath, I think back to the ever-growing list of questions I've been burning to ask her for years and select one at random. "What's your favorite color?"

"Huh?"

I give her a rueful smile and a slight shrug as if that explains why that particular question had just popped out of my mouth. I'm embarrassed, but I don't let myself back down. Not this time. "Do you have one?"

She watches me for a moment, her eyes meeting mine. "I guess it's green."

"You guess?" I probe.

"Blue's nice, too." The moment she says this, her cheeks flush slightly and she looks away. "What's yours?" she grits out, avoiding my eyes.

My blue eyes.

_"Blue's nice, too…"_

Oh. Wow. Really? I force myself to breathe normally. I try not to get my hopes up because there can be no hope. None whatsoever.

Clearing my throat, I turn my bread roll over in my hands and muse, "Orange." I'd almost said it was grey, but if I had, then she would have known that I'd noticed the implications of her comment and even though I know we can't be friends – not really – I don't want to lose what we have right now. Not yet.

She grimaces comically. "Orange?"

Her tone makes me chuckle. "A nice kind of orange. Like the one you see at sunset," I explain.

"Oh." Her mouth twitches into a slight smile and a far-off look comes to her eyes. Huh. I guess she likes sunsets, too. That shouldn't make me as happy as it does but, damn it, any discovery of something we might have in common, no matter how small or superficial elates me.

"Favorite season?" I press next.

"Spring," she replies immediately and then, mysteriously, ducks her head like she'd just revealed too much.

It frustrates me that I can't even begin to guess what that might be.

"You?"

"Fall."

"For the colors?"

"Yeah," I answer. I guess I'm an open book to her.

And then she surprises me by taking the initiative and asking, "Do you like working in the bakery?"

"I love it," I answer honestly.

She hesitates. "Even with your mom there?"

I look at her sharply, meeting her grey eyes. There's more to her question than what we'd discussed last night in the living room – I can tell. Which means she probably knows that I took a belting for burning that bread all those years ago. I'd told everyone that Baxter and I had gotten into it. Only Katniss, my mother, Baxter, and I know that never happened. Although, I suspect that most people in town know what my mother is really like and have their suspicions about the welts and bruises I used to sporadically show up with at school.

Despite all that, I do love working at the bakery. "Yes. She doesn't— It's not— I mean…" I take a deep breath and try to be generous. There's no point in harboring resentment. I'll never see my mother again. The thought is both sad and liberating. "She's all right so long as you don't screw up."

We are on the cusp of a conversation that might lead to… something. Something deeper than I can afford. A little frantically, I reach for the bread basket at our table and start babbling about the selection of rolls. There's one for every district and I get a helpless huff of humor out of her when I ask, "You think the District Four bread is green to match the people who don't find their sea legs?" I puff up my cheeks, cross my eyes, and suddenly hunch my shoulders, imitating someone about to hurl.

The sound of Katniss not-quite-laughing at one of my stupid jokes is a gift I never thought I'd be given. I beam at her. She smiles shyly back. It's almost like she can't help it.

I wonder if she might have already forgiven me for how I gave her that bread back when we were in grade school. It's important that she forgive me my cowardice. It's _really _important. But I'd rather die than bring it up and kill the happiness dancing in her eyes.

_I put that there. That smile is for me._

It hurts to glance away, but I force myself to do it. I shouldn't want her smiles. There will be no room for smiles in the arena.

"Do you miss anything about school?" I ask, regardless of whether we win or lose, none of the kids in this room will ever have to go to school again. It's amazing. One moment, one slip of paper, one name, and everything you took for granted is suddenly erased.

"Not really," she says. I hadn't really expected a different answer. Katniss it too practical to care about the intricacies of coal mining and that's pretty much all they teach us. Katniss' life revolves around her sister, mother, and Gale Hawthorne. Her purpose revolves around hunting. I wish I could ask her about that, but I know I can't. She'd never forgive me if I got Gale in trouble by revealing his poaching activities.

"I miss art class," I volunteer.

She blinks. "We haven't had an art class in years."

"Yeah, the good ol' days," I reminisce.

Her lips twitch upward before they fall into a frown. "Yeah. They were pretty good," she agrees softly.

It takes me a moment to get it and when I do I want to kick myself. The last time we'd had an art class had been something like five or six years ago. Back when her father had still been alive.

I instinctively know that an apology will push her further away. I should apologize. She shouldn't get attached to me in any way. I don't want her to be sad when I die. Katniss has been too sad for too long.

"Can you draw?" she asks abruptly. Her tone is harsh, but I don't take it personally. She hadn't when I'd tactlessly switched the topic from my mother to our bread basket. We all cope in our own ways.

"I'm all right," I admit, unthinkingly echoing her words from the night before when Haymitch had asked about her aim.

"Did you see the pencils and paper in our rooms upstairs?"

I blink. "No."

"Well, they're there. In the drawer in the nightstand thing."

"Thanks for the tip," I tell her. "That might come in handy after dinner tonight."

"Will you show me if you draw something?"

I stare at her, overwhelmed by her interest. "Sure," I manage.

When she turns back to her meal, she is smiling.

* * *

**A note on movie versus book details:**

I've kept Peeta's eyes blue as per the novel (although, to be perfectly honest with you all, I'm more of a brown-eyes kind of girl). The bread basket which holds rolls that are particular to each district is also from the book. (Although Peeta's puke-face is all mine. Uh hum.)

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Gamemakers":**

_I sigh, wishing I'd never noticed the parallels between my mother and Katniss. Yes, I wish like hell that my mother had been proud of me, but I know there's nothing I can do now – shy of killing Katniss in cold blood – to please her. And I won't do that. I won't change who I am for her. I don't have to change. Over the past few days, I've been myself for Katniss and she'd looked at me **like that** and…_

_And I hadn't had to be anyone other than who I am to earn it._

_Oh, God._

_I think I'm falling in love with her._

_Shit._

**Recommended fic:**

"Someone To Watch Over Me" by ArthursCamelot. This is a re-write of the Hunger Games novel (Katniss POV). I dearly love the way Peeta pretty much handles everyone (tributes and trainers alike) in the Training Center. It's pretty epic. **  
**


	5. The Gamemakers

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy the geek-out moment I have... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. I own a copy of the DVD... which you will have to pry out of my cold, dead fingers.

Theme music: "Parachute" by Train

* * *

**The Gamemakers**

* * *

The past two days have been the best of my life. Which makes no sense whatsoever. I've been taken from my home and sentenced to die. I've spent my time training with weapons and learning survival skills that are destined to fail. But I've been spending nearly every moment of the last two days at Katniss Everdeen's side. I still can't believe that she doesn't seem to mind my company. I still can't believe that I've managed to make her smile.

And that look in her eyes after I'd taken her suggestion and thrown that weight across the room… well, I'd immortalized it on paper with graphite the moment we'd finished dinner that night. I'd had to keep myself from checking the nightstand drawer once I'd returned to my room to get cleaned up for dinner, knowing that if I had a sheet of paper and a pencil in my hands, the meal would pass before I'd be able to put them down and I hadn't wanted to miss a moment with Katniss. Not one, single moment.

Sitting beside Katniss at dinner after the first day of training had been a special kind of torment, but unlike the night before, I didn't leave until we'd both been excused. And then I'd had to rein in my impulse to sprint up the stairs.

I hadn't shown Katniss the finished sketch. In fact, I had every intention of never showing it to her. It was going to be my token, the one thing that I took into the arena with me. I'd already given it to Portia so it could be approved and I really hope it will be. I want that reminder during the Games, that proof that – even if it was just for a moment – Katniss had been glad to know me. I want to make her proud of me.

_Projecting again, are we?_

I sigh, wishing I'd never noticed the parallels between my mother and Katniss. Yes, I wish like hell that my mother had been proud of me, but I know there's nothing I can do now – shy of killing Katniss in cold blood – to please her. And I won't do that. I won't change who I am to please her or anyone. I don't _have to_ change. Over the past few days, I've been myself for Katniss and she'd looked at me _like that_ and…

And I hadn't had to be anyone other than who I am to earn it.

Oh, God.

I think I'm falling in love with her.

Shit.

"Peeta? You okay?"

I look up, releasing my hair from my fingers. I'd been staring down at my empty breakfast plate, having an epiphany.

"Hey," I rasp. "I'm great. You?"

She gives me a little nod, one that I've learned she substitutes for affirmative responses, generally. "You nervous?"

"A little," I admit. Today's the day we have our private sessions with the Gamemakers.

"Are you going to do camouflage?"

"I wasn't planning on it."

"You should. You were really good at that." I'm flattered that she thinks so. The day before, I'd spent the better part of the afternoon painting a tree bark design on Katniss' hand and arm as we'd chatted. Yet another memory that I will never ever forget: Katniss sitting so patiently, quietly, and close while I'd decorated her skin.

"How did you do that?" she'd murmured when the trainer had come by to tell us it was time to head back upstairs. Katniss had been watching me work, so it'd seemed like a weird thing for her to ask. She knew how I'd done it: with a paintbrush and natural materials. But, then again, Katniss doesn't always say what she really means. I think she'd been trying to ask how I'd _known_ how to do it.

"I used to decorate the cakes at the bakery," I'd answered without thinking and then suppressed a wince, hoping she wouldn't pick up on my use of past tense.

Cake decorating was definitely past tense for me.

I'd never decorated them like a tree stump before, though. So, really, my answer made no sense at all. About as much sense as her question. I liked that our awkwardness had kinda matched.

Katniss hadn't said anything about my nonsensical reply. Instead, she'd offered, "Prim always wants to stop by the bakery on the weekends and see them." I could remember seeing her and Katniss through the front windows. Every Saturday afternoon. I'd looked forward to it like a thirsty man contemplates a cup of cool water.

And then, amazingly, she'd ventured further: "They're beautiful."

The words had been so soft that I almost hadn't heard them. I'd looked up, but her expression had given nothing away.

"Thanks," I'd told her quietly. We'd headed for the elevator together and I'd tried not to read too much into the exchange or Katniss' gentle tone.

But now here it is once more, and there's that look in her eyes again. That flash of something that makes my pulse race and my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth with the fear that I'll screw up and say the wrong thing and then I'll never see that flicker of warmth in her eyes again.

I marvel at her, my heart breaking. _I think I could love you, Katniss. I really think I could. Someday… someday real soon._

I clear my throat, watching as she starts filling her plate. "Wouldn't that be hilarious," I begin, setting up for the punch line. "Frosting cakes is a transferable survival skill."

She laughs softly and I feel tears burn the backs of my eyes. Oh, God. I've made her laugh. _Really_ laugh. That wasn't a silent chuckle or a breathed snort of amusement. It was a real laugh. I've finally done it.

I reach an unsteady hand for the nearest platter. If I have to choose between sobbing and stuffing my face with Capitol food, I'll choose the food, thanks very much.

Haymitch plops down in his usual chair, pours himself his usual café-au-liquor and declares, "This is it, kids. Time to show your strengths. Since you're from District Twelve, you'll go last. Lucky you." He pauses and gives us each a look. "How do I put this…?" he takes a moment to build the suspense even though I'm sure he already knows exactly what he wants to say. "Make sure they remember you."

Right. Because if I screw this up, it'll hurt Katniss' chances for sponsors. No one's going to believe just how incredible she is if her co-tribute is deemed a pathetic weakling. Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith – the Games official commentators – always end up talking about each district's tributes like they're one unit. I've seen it again and again; if one tribute is given a low rating, neither of them receive much in the way of sponsorship. If I end up with a four or something – hell, a six or less – I will _destroy_ Katniss' chances for making it back to Twelve.

I'm so worried I could puke.

"Hey," she says, reaching for my hand as we take the elevator downstairs. Her grip startles me. This is another first: her reaching out to take my hand instead of the other way around. So many firsts in these final days. I can't keep track of them all.

Does this mean we're friends? If only we could be. If only there was time.

I can't summon any words, but I manage to squeeze her fingers in response.

"You okay?" she asks for the second time today.

"Sit with me while we wait?" I hear myself ask.

"Of course." She says it like she hadn't bothered to imagine what else she might be doing today. As if it had been her plan all along.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected Katniss to be this open with me. "Thank you," I tell her, meaning so much more than I dare to explain.

_Still a coward, aren't we?_

I suppose so.

The hours crawl by. I brace my elbows on my thighs and bounce one leg at irregular intervals. Katniss sits beside me with a very small inch of space between us. Sometimes she shifts and brushes her elbow against mine. When it's time for me to go, I can't just leave without saying _something._

Midway to the door, I pause and glance over my shoulder at her. She looks tense now, far more tense than when I'd been sitting next to her. Now her leg is twitching. As if my nervous habit had been contagious. As if having me sitting next to her had been soothing. Her leg twitches and I want to know why. I want to know what that means even though I know I can't. I mustn't.

"Hey, Katniss," I whisper. She looks up and our gazes lock. "Shoot straight."

She nods and then I head out into the cavernous and echoingly empty training area. I have twenty minutes to impress the Gamemakers. They've already seen me throw that weight and there aren't any other tests of strength that could really beat that. Katniss is right. I should do camouflage.

Given the limited time, though, I can't get too fancy.

I don't bother to interrupt the Gamemakers. They're chatting and eating and drinking. A few are even dozing. I want to strangle them.

Instead, I position a dummy not far from the copse of trees I'm planning to use for cover, collect a spear, and then head for the camouflage station. I spare a thought for the clothes Portia had designed for me, for the waste, but I can't afford to hesitate now. I slather mud over my front and cake my hair with it. I manage a quick and dirty sun-freckled pattern with my fingerprints and scratch a bark-like texture across my legs and chest. Add bit of moss and…

Good enough.

I move slowly and carefully into the trees, making sure that no one is looking in my direction. I lift the spear, take aim, and announce myself.

"Peeta Mellark! District Twelve!"

The Gamemakers startle as if they'd completely forgotten there was a tribute in the room at all, which they probably had.

Their gazes dart over the room and I see one man nudge his sleepy companion. Just as he wakes with a snort, I focus on the dummy and hurl the spear. It strikes my target in the lower belly. Not a great shot, but I can see the blade is nearly completely buried. I guess that shows my strength well enough. Very slowly, I inch my arm down and melt into my surroundings. By now, the Gamemakers are actively searching for me. Several are looking confused.

I hold off until someone asks the question I've been waiting for – "Where is he?" – and then I step out from my hiding place and give them a friendly wave. They laugh. They approve. Thank God. I hate that I need them, but I do, so I smile and thank them for the opportunity to see them in private.

When they excuse me, I head for the elevator. There's a shower calling my name. But, oddly enough, I want to show my work to Katniss. I shouldn't, though, because I'm not sure _why_ I want her to see my feat of camouflage: because I think she'll get a kick out of it or because I want to see that flicker of pride in her eyes when she looks at me again?

"Oh my _goodness!"_ Effie huffs when I step out of the elevator and into the foyer. I look up and grin at her expression of slack-jawed amazement.

"What is it, Trinkets?" Haymitch calls, heaving himself up off of the sofa across the room and getting a good look at me. "What the hell are you supposed to be, kid?"

I step over to one of the massive, potted topiaries in the entryway to set the scene before I explain: "A tree that threw a spear and disemboweled a dummy at twenty yards."

"Did you?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

A moment of silence passes. Effie looks on the verge of passing out at the sheer quantity of muck covering me. Haymitch lifts a brow and gives me a sarcastic grin.

"Are you waiting for a standing ovation?"

"Nope. Already got one from the Gamemakers."

"Did you?" He actually looks impressed. "So what're you standing around here for?"

I'm glad he can't see me blush through the dirt on my face. "This was Katniss' suggestion," I reply, gesturing to myself.

"Right." I can see he's putting it all together. "I hate to break it to you, kid, but girls don't kiss boys who are covered in mud and… plant life."

Katniss isn't a typical girl. I open my mouth to argue back – although why in the hell I'm bothering I don't know – and am interrupted by the ding of the elevator.

What? It's too soon—

But there stands Katniss and she looks gloriously, beautifully furious. I flush with heat. My skin tingles beneath the drying filth.

I want her.

"Katniss!" Effie screeches. "The Gamemakers didn't dismiss you so quickly, did they? This is unheard of!"

"I dismissed myself," Katniss bites out.

I'd thought I couldn't be any more impressed by this girl, and yet I am.

"What did you _do?"_ Effie interrogates with increasing panic.

For a moment, it looks like she's not going to answer. "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

For a moment, no one says anything.

_"At_ the Gamemakers?" Haymitch probes.

"Well… I shot the apple out of the mouth of their stupid roast pig."

Haymitch bursts out laughing and lurches for the stairs. "This I've got to hear from the witnesses themselves, sweetheart!" A couple of seconds later, I hear the sound of a door slamming shut. I guess there's some sort of communication device up there that Haymitch is going to use to call the Gamemakers.

Effie is beside herself in shock.

When Katniss smirks, Effie throws her hands up in the air, pivots on her spikey heels, and storms off shouting for Cinna and Portia. I take this opportunity to shift my weight. Katniss' startled gaze zooms toward me reflexively. Huh. I guess my camouflage stuff really does work. Even around topiaries. Silence reverberates between us… and then I grin.

"Hey. Nice shot."

Her mouth falls open and a bark of laughter bursts out. "Nice mud."

"Thanks," I reply. "I took your advice," I add unnecessarily.

She approaches me and I stay still even when she circles behind me. I feel her finger poke me in the back of the head. "You missed a spot."

I laugh. I hadn't bothered to disguise my back, only my front and throwing arm. I turn and waggle my crusted brows at her. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Anytime."

She crosses her arms over her chest and grins at me.

"What?" I demand.

With a shake of her head, she tells me, "I'm waiting to see Portia's reaction to this."

I groan dramatically. My stylist is going to kill me. "You'll protect me, won't you?"

Katniss answers with the widest, brightest grin I have ever seen her smile. Ever.

_That's mine, too._

Before she can either shoot me down or swear her allegiance, Portia and Cinna appear, being bodily herded in our direction by a frantic Effie. Portia gasps. Cinna bursts out laughing.

"Oh, I do not envy you, Portia, dear," he says on a chuckle.

I hang my head in shame and look up at my stylist through my lashes. Katniss laughs _again._

"Be quiet, you," I grumble out of the corner of my shouldn't-be-smiling mouth, "or I'll tell them just whose idea this was."

"Right. And if I told you to jump off a cliff?" she teases me.

She's _teasing_ me.

I can't believe it.

Hell, I can't believe I'd dared to tease her first… and she hadn't instantly hated me for it. My heart swells at the thought of how far we've come in just the last seventy-two hours. And then breaks when I remember that we're only a day and a half away from the start of the Games.

Katniss doesn't wait for my answer, but I already know what it is. If Katniss told me to jump off a cliff, I would.

I already have.

* * *

**Notes:**

Lots of extra non-book/non-movie stuff in this chapter. And lots of "tweaking." In The Gamemakers, Peeta works his camouflage magic on Katniss' arm instead of his own (which is what happens in the book and movie). In the book, I think Peeta has his private session with the Gamemakers first, and then Katniss has hers, so I kept that order instead of the sequence of events in the movie. But, Katniss' reaction to her private session in this chapter flows better with what happens in the movie: she's kind of I-don't-give-a-flick badass.

Peeta and Katniss will be characterized slightly differently than in the books or movie, just to warn you. Since I get to play with them, I get to make them do what I want. (Mwhahahaha! ...ahem) So, don't assume I mean for them to be perfectly "in character." I don't and they won't be. (But I'm sure you'll enjoy the results.)

THANK YOU SO MUCH to the wonderful folks who have reviewed, feedbacked, and fangirled. Your squee is my squee.

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Interview":**

_"You're a smart one, kid," Haymitch tells me, pulling me out of my thoughts. He turns back to the line of liquor bottles and sighs. "That'd get you pretty far in the Games. It's too bad you're in such a hurry to die."_

**Recommended fic:**

"Wear Your Heart On Your Skin" by BleedtoLoveHer. Let's keep with the skin-alteration-slash-decoration theme and go for a Modern Day AU with Peeta, the tattoo artist. *eyebrow wiggle* **  
**


	6. The Interview

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy the geek-out moment I have... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. I do not own a copy of the books. I don't even own any Peeta posters. I iz disappoint.

Theme music: "Say When" by The Fray

* * *

**The Interview**

* * *

An eleven.

An _eleven._

ELEVEN.

Shit. I can't believe it. But I can. Because Katniss is that amazing. Absolutely.

For a second, I'm winded. I'm proud of her. I'm so happy for her.

"Congratulations," I breathe, awed.

She turns away from me and leans toward Haymitch. I shouldn't be surprised. I remember Haymitch's verdict on her performance during her private session with the Gamemakers:

_"Genius! Pure genius. I'd have given anything to see it."_

Just that. Just that one remark and she'd bonded with the man. This simple action now proves it: I've been her loyal companion for the last two and a half days and now she turns to _him_ for confirmation.

He gives it. "They must have liked your fire."

I'm well aware that Katniss Everdeen is all fire beneath her wall of impenetrable smoke.

Our stylists are toasting her, clinking glasses and crowing with delight. Effie joins in, her fit of temper turned inside out into pure euphoria. Haymitch salutes Katniss with his tumbler. And me? What do I do? I panic in silence.

My hands are shaking because she doesn't need me. Over the last few days, what have I really done for her? Really? Nothing. I've made her smile a few times, but those were for me, not for her, not for the Games.

I really am useless.

I slip out of the room before I can curl up in a ball on the sofa and bury my hands in my hair. I need to think. I need to remember what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I need to get back on track. How could I have forgotten my plan to save Katniss? Or maybe I hadn't forgotten. I'd _abandoned_ it. Why? Just so I could spend time with her?

_Selfish coward._

I am. All I've been doing is trying to be her friend when I should have been helping her. And because I think there's the slightest chance that I might have succeeded in befriending her, I feel nauseatingly guilty for keeping Katniss in the dark like I have been about my original plan to manipulate her into trusting Haymitch.

And as far as that goes, I've succeeded, haven't I?

I grit my teeth and really give the situation a good mulling over. Katniss has _begun_ to trust Haymitch, but it's probably still too soon to be sure. Well, there's one thing I could do to guarantee it… and I should do it. I shouldn't leave anything to chance. That would be careless. Irresponsible.

This is the best thing I can do for her right now.

But what about tomorrow evening? At the interview? Katniss doesn't do so well with people. I can't speak for her during her interview, but I can still help her. I know it: I can give her my words. An idea rushes over me and it is brilliant. Perfect. Necessary. I know what I'm going to say in my interview with Caesar, and I know that I'll probably lose her trust forever when I do.

I don't think I'm imagining that she has started to maybe give me the benefit of the doubt. It's like both of us have started over. No past. No District Twelve. Just us, here, now. Her brief smiles and our soft conversations over the last two days have affected me more than I thought they would. Or could. Mostly, I'm just in awe that she seems to not hate spending time with me, that I seem to help make things bearable for her here, away from her sister… whom I know she loves with all her heart. Whose place she has willingly taken in a televised death match. Despite all that, I've helped her smile.

But now that's going to change. It has to change because the person she needs to trust is _Haymitch._

It's not yet dinnertime when I emerge from my room. I pause beside Katniss' door and listen intently. I can hear water running, so she must be in the shower. This is my chance and I take it. I clamor down the steps in search of our mentor, cornering him in the living area. "I want to be coached separately," I say without preamble. There's no time for it.

"Well," he drawls, looking not at all shocked by my announcement as he refills his flask from the arrangement of beverages at the bar. "Your resolution didn't last long."

"It's not—"

"Don't feel bad about it, kid. It's only natural that you'd wanna live—"

"No, I—"

"By now you're probably wondering what the hell you were thinking, confessing to all those lovey dovey feelings on the train—"

"Haymitch! Shut up and listen!"

He turns, eyebrows arched, and smirks. "Okay."

"I haven't changed my mind. I want you to work with Katniss tomorrow. I'll train on my own."

He sighs. "Kid, what the hell are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that she needs to trust you while she's in the arena." And this is the only warning I can give her before our interviews tomorrow night. Not that she can't trust me – she can although I'm sure she won't – but that I've been pulling strings without her knowledge. She deserves to know that something's going on even if I can't tell her exactly what it is. Yet. And when I do…

I can't see Katniss being thrilled to learn how I feel about her. My declaration will deliver the deathblow to our budding friendship, but it's better to kill it now so she can turn to Haymitch. She needs him. She doesn't need me.

I'm the one who needs her.

"You're a smart one, kid," Haymitch tells me, pulling me out of my thoughts. He turns back to the line of liquor bottles and sighs. "That'd get you pretty far in the Games. It's too bad you're in such a hurry to die."

"I'm not in a hurry. I'll get as far as I have to." I plan to outlive as many tributes as I can. I plan to help Katniss as best I can. And, if it comes down to the two of us, then I need to make sure she doesn't hesitate to kill me. I can't give her a reason to hesitate. The last couple of days were a mistake. I shouldn't have reached out to her. I shouldn't have let her get closer to me.

_Weak._

"All on your own?" Haymitch sneers. "Good luck with that, kid. Good luck."

As Haymitch has more or less agreed to do as I'd asked, I head upstairs to my room to commune with a sheet of paper and a pencil. My stomach is growling before I run out of angles and expressions to bring out of Katniss on the canvases under my hands, so it's with a resigned sigh that I contemplate the food dispenser in my room. An abrupt knock on my door startles me and, turning, I find Haymitch leaning irreverently against the door jamb.

"I'm telling her at dinner," he alerts me. "Unless you've changed your mind…"

"I haven't."

He looks resigned for a moment, and then determined. "If you're for real, kid—"

"I am."

Haymitch stares at me for a long moment. "What a waste." He shuts the door behind him when he leaves.

I turn back to the food alcove and order some lamb stew with dried plums. I think it's Katniss' favorite.

The night is long. I don't sleep. The next day, I roll out of bed at dawn and go through my wrestling exercises. I sketch some of the edible plants that Katniss had shown me in the training center just to refresh my memory. Haymitch comes by to coach me on the content of my interview.

I tell him my idea.

He pauses. "You sure you wanna do this, kid?"

I'm starting to get kind of irritated with him. I'm pretty sure it shows. "My answer hasn't changed."

"Right. Okay. It's your funeral. So, let's hear it. Be charming. Smile. Laugh. Caesar always asks the tributes with a speck of charisma if they have a sweetheart back home. Wait for that, okay?"

"Got it."

"Now, when he gives you your opening, don't just blurt it out. Lead into it."

We hash out the details. Haymitch approves my attempts at being charismatic and personable. I never would have thought I could pull that off, but I surprise myself with how ready I feel. Then I have a session with Effie. She corrects my posture, reminds me to look at the audience, lectures me on how to keep from mumbling, pats me on the shoulder, and leaves.

My prep team swoops down on me. They despair over the shadows under my eyes and shove me into the shower. I end up pushing the rose-scented soap button again, but I don't lose my shit over it. I've already established a pattern of stupidity and repeated mistakes. What's one more?

"Peeta?" Portia prompts me. My hair has been styled, my hands moisturized and nails manicured. I'm standing in front of the mirror she'd programmed into my room's window panel, but I'm not even looking at my reflection.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. I'm letting her down. "Who knew I could look this good. You've got magic, Portia."

She smiles, but it fades quickly. "What's wrong, sweetness?"

When she lays a maternal hand on my back, I cave. "I missed Katniss today. Did you see her? Is she very angry?"

Portia sighs. "She seems upset, yes."

I shouldn't feel like I've been kicked in the gut. I'd anticipated that very reaction from her, after all.

"Why did you do it, Peeta? Why did you take her friend away from her?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply. "I think I love her."

Portia doesn't look surprised. "I know."

I mutter around a dark chuckle, "Then why did you ask?"

"Because I think you needed to say it out loud."

She's right. I had. She pats my back and tells me it's time to go.

We only have to wait in the foyer for a few minutes and then Cinna is leading Katniss down the stairs.

Oh.

Oh, God.

She is… indescribable.

And pissed.

She ignores me, but that's fine. It's fine. It's necessary.

As we wait in the shadows beside the stage, I try not to stare at her. With her hair piled up on top of her head, her neck looks long and soft, graceful and warm. I wonder what she smells like.

And then I wonder just what she's going to talk about in her interview. Katniss doesn't give herself freely. She won't want to talk about herself or home. She won't want to talk about her strategy for the Games. Damn. What the hell is she going to talk about for three whole minutes?

_Help her, Caesar. Please._

And then I'll run damage control just like she'd done for me in the Training Center.

In the end, it turns out that Cinna is the real hero. That dress saves the day. It dazzles the audience. Twirling brings an unfettered smile to her face. She is stunning. But the only comment of substance she makes is when she's asked about her sister.

I don't have to glance at Haymitch to know that, while it's good, it's not quite good enough.

Well. That's what I'm here for.

"Peeta Mellark!"

Right. Here we go.

I stride across the stage. I shake Caesar's hand. He asks me how I'm finding the Capitol. I confess to shower anxiety. I ask him, "Do I smell like roses to you?"

He takes a whiff, which I reciprocate with better comedic timing than I've ever managed in my life. We bring the house down. For a second, I think Caesar and I could take this show on the road, but then I focus.

"So, Peeta, is there a special girl back home?" Caesar inquires. Haymitch had been right on the money about the direction my interview would take. Thank God.

"Uh… no. Not really." There. I hope I'd looked just uncomfortable enough to make him ask—

"Oh, come now! A handsome man like you? Tell us, Peeta."

I take a deep breath and with that hesitation, I know it's too late to go back. "Um, well, there is this one girl I've had a crush on for as long as I can remember."

"Ah…" Caesar drawls knowingly.

I plow forward. "But I don't think she actually recognized me until the Reaping."

Sounds of sympathy roll in waves from the audience.

"Well, here's what you do," Caesar counsels me and I give him my undivided attention. I'm hopeful, in spite of myself, that he'll actually have answers for me. He doesn't. He tells me to win.

I hear myself confess before I can think twice, "I don't think that's going to work in my case."

"And why not?"

Shit. This is it. I struggle not to pass out. _Focus!_

"Because she came here with me."

And there it is.

But the truth is worse. The truth is that it's not just a crush. Not anymore. And it doesn't matter.

I forget Effie's lecture on etiquette and mumble my way through Caesar's sympathies. When he finally reaches out to shake my hand, I feel a wave of relief. It's over. It's done. _You're going to live, Katniss. You're going to live._

But Caesar isn't finished yet. "I think I speak for all of Panem when I say that our hearts go with yours."

My heart is pounding with adrenaline. My success has been confirmed, but I can only smile sadly for the cameras. The applause chases me from the stage. I hurry back to the suite without waiting for Portia. Haymitch and Effie and Cinna are undoubtedly with Katniss. Where they should be.

My plan is to head to my room directly where I can enjoy a nice meltdown in peace and quiet. I step out of the elevator and set a course for the stairs—

And then I'm being shoved up against the wall. Katniss' bare forearm pins my shoulders and I raise my hands reflexively to grasp her arm.

Soft skin. Warm. Shifting muscles. She's strong.

She's furious. Beautiful even as she snarls.

I suck in a breath and I get my wish from earlier. I can smell her.

Oh, God. _Please, Katniss…_

She hisses at me, her voice husky with pain and accusation and I have to clutch her arm and clench my jaw and grit my teeth. I am a heartbeat away from reaching for her hips, bringing her flush against me, kissing her painted lips, tasting her mouth with my tongue. I wonder if she would bite me in retaliation.

Heat surges through me and I feel myself harden in my trousers.

I want her. _Right now._

And then Haymitch wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her off of me. _No, Goddamn it!_ My denial is so intense that I shock myself. I lean back against the wall, panting and dazed. With Katniss' fire suddenly removed from my personal space, I feel numb. All I can do is gape and watch Haymitch try to talk sense into her, but the only person she really listens to at this point is Cinna.

Not that that stops Haymitch from trying to browbeat her. "I can sell the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve—"

I distantly hear Katniss biting out a denial. She and I aren't star-crossed lovers. Of course not. But the image I suddenly have of her in my arms, my lips mapping her bare, fragrant shoulders is enough to make my jaw drop and my breaths turn into gasps.

"It's a television show!" Haymitch practically roars, clearly at the end of his rope. "And being in love with that boy might just get you sponsors, which could save your damn life!"

And that quickly the dream of her and me – of _us _– dissolves. None of this is real. We are the entertainment at the annual Capitol banquet. That is all. I have _got _to remember that.

"Okay," Haymitch mutters in exasperation, running a hand through his lank hair. "You," he tells me, "get out of here. Maybe I can deliver you both in one piece tomorrow."

Maybe, but I don't think so. I'm already crumbling. Katniss is looking at me and there is so much there in her eyes. How did I ever think they could hold secrets? They reveal far more than they could ever hide:

Regret – because she understands now that I had her best interest in mind.

Fury – because she hates that I did her a favor.

Confusion – because she just can't comprehend the effect she can have.

Fear – because she might actually have to pretend to care about me in order to get sponsors.

As Portia ushers me up the stairs, I look back at Katniss. I don't know if I manage to show her the only things I have left to give her: my honesty, my heart, myself.

But I try.

* * *

**Notes:**

Most of my inspiration for this part comes from the movie except for the reference to the lamb stew being Katniss' favorite and Caesar's parting remark: "...our hearts go with yours." Both of those are from the book and I love them MUCHLY.

I was asked what Peeta's score was in this AU and... I'm gonna say it was a 9. But an 8 still would've been OK. In any event, Peeta thinks it's "good enough" so he doesn't dwell on it much. (Or at all.)

Reviews are much loved and appreciated! I'm also on Tumblr (manniness) and Live Journal (manniness).

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Window Seat (Katniss POV)":**

_I stop and I think about the task ahead of me in the arena. I stop and think about killing, helping to kill, or standing back and waiting for the death of each and every kid that I'd seen in the Training Center and on stage tonight. I might not be all that sad to see Cato go, but what about the tributes like little Rue from Eleven? Even if I manage to be the victor of these Games, will I still be me? I'd go home a murderer, for killing was killing, either by action or inaction. I study Peeta's reflection, watching him watch me. I think about my return. I think about Peeta's funeral._

**Recommended fic:**

"The Volunteer" by sponsormusings. A story of sacrifice... and I think that fits with the overall theme of this chapter. **  
**


	7. The Window Seat (Katniss POV)

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy the geek-out moment I have... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I love it anyway.

Theme music: "Headlock" by Imogene Heap

* * *

**Notes from Manny: **

This was the first thing I wrote when I started this fic. I asked myself, "What if Katniss had stopped and THOUGHT about what it would mean for her to win the games? What if Peeta's friendship had already made a difference? What is she'd bought a clue?" So, that's the scoop. Enjoy.

* * *

**The Window Seat (Katniss POV)**

* * *

I should be furious with him. I want to be furious.

I'm not. And I don't like it.

I honestly don't know what to think… except that I think I miss him. Even though we haven't spoken of that day in the rain, I don't resent him anymore. I'm not sure that I ever did. What I'd hated was owing him.

So why hadn't I ever paid him back? I could have squared the debt. Why hadn't I?

I have no idea.

But I do know that it's not his fault that I still owe him for the bread. It's mine.

Why couldn't I face him? Why couldn't I pay him back?

_You were too ashamed to even look him in the eye._

So that's it. I hated that I'd been so vulnerable in the first place. I guess, all these years, I've been hating myself. Not him. Never him.

I roll over onto my side in the too big, too soft, too empty bed and sigh, irritated at myself. I feel shaken. I need to find my balance.

I've never been the kind of person who trusts easily, who makes friends quickly. I'm really not. I'm not like that at all. Except with Cinna… and Peeta. It makes no sense that Peeta and I had suddenly become friends. None of this makes any sense: the minute I'd let myself relax in his presence, I'd been drawn in. Why is he an exception? I don't understand.

I'd really been starting to like Peeta before he'd asked Haymitch to coach us separately. The betrayal had been sudden and stomach-numbingly hot. Swift. Surprising.

But now, I think Haymitch could be right: Peeta had just been trying to help. And everyone knows how much I hate it when people do me favors. Peeta has known me for years, so he must have guessed what the cost of this favor would be… but he'd done it anyway. And what had _I _done? Shoved him. Yelled at him.

I'm no better than his mother.

I remember the look in Peeta's eyes when he'd spoken of her:

_"She said District Twelve might finally have a winner."_

_"Wanna trade?"_

_"She's all right so long as you don't screw up."_

I bite the inside of my cheek. I've never really thought about it, but that day five years ago… that couldn't have been the first time Mrs. Mellark had hit Peeta, and it probably hadn't been the last.

What's worse is I hadn't even thanked him. Nor had he ever cornered me and demanded it. He'd helped me and never asked for a single thing in return. For years, I'd believed that he'd _made_ me owe him, but that's not true and I can't lie to myself anymore.

_"There's this one girl I've had a crush on for as long as I can remember."_

I still can't believe it's me, but if it is, it kind of makes sense. I don't want it to make sense. Not like that. If he'd wanted a polite thank-you, I could have obliged. If he'd wanted wild game – rabbits or a turkey – I could have left them on his doorstep. He hadn't. He'd helped me because he likes me, so doesn't that mean I have to like him back? To reciprocate?

No wonder I've always felt uncomfortable around Peeta Mellark.

With a heavy sigh, I roll out of bed. It's useless trying to sleep. Maybe if I walk around for a while, I'll burn through these thoughts and be able to curl up on the sofa downstairs and get _some_ rest, at least. I know I'm going to need it. They're sending us into the arena tomorrow.

I move silently as I leave my room, pausing to glance in the direction of Peeta's. My throat suddenly locks down and my chest aches. I don't want to go into the Games without having spoken to him one more time. I don't want my last words to him to be angry ones.

But what would I say?

I have no idea.

Maybe a walk first, then.

I descend the stairs, pausing midway when I see a figure seated on the wide ledge beneath the massive windows lining the living room wall.

I guess he couldn't sleep, either.

And now I really need to figure out what I'm going to say to him. I cross the room, bracing myself. As soon as he sees me, he'll tense. His expression will close. He won't want to talk to me after what I said, after how I shoved him.

I hesitate.

He looks up and… he smiles. "Oh. Hey," he says, as if the last day and a half never happened.

"Hi," I whisper, crossing my arms and shuffling a bit closer. I know the next move is mine and I won't make the same mistake again. I owe him something. "I'm sorry I… went after you earlier."

He doesn't tell me it's okay. He watches me through his lashes – boys aren't supposed to have such long lashes, are they? – and tells me with a soft smile, "You know I meant that as a compliment."

"I know." And I do. I didn't know Peeta Mellark of District Twelve, but I know this Peeta. Peeta Mellark, the Hunger Games Tribute. I know this boy.

I slide onto the ledge opposite him, wrapping my arms around my knees, and study his profile as he looks out the window. I gradually become aware of the roar of the crowd from the lighted square below. "Listen to them," I remark, disgusted.

"I just don't want them to change me."

My chin jerks up. Peeta glances at me and I feel like such a fool. I can tell he hasn't been spending the last two hours feeling sorry for himself. Not like me. "How would they change you?"

He shrugs, gazing out into the darkness. I wonder whether he's thinking of the ongoing celebrations in the Capitol or the distant hills of District Twelve. "I don't know. I just don't want them to turn me into something I'm not. I've tried to be someone I'm not for a long time," he admits.

"You have?"

He nods. "But I think… I think I get it now." He tucks his chin down. It makes his smile go crooked. "Great timing, huh? I figure it out after I've been Reaped. Nothing left to lose, I guess."

I don't have a reply to that.

"I just wish I could think of a way to show them that they don't own me. That I'm not just another piece in their game." His gaze slides in my direction and my heart stutters like I've been caught. "If I'm gonna die, I wanna still be me. Does that make sense?"

"About as much sense as…" I trail off, surprised and slightly sickened by the path my thoughts have taken.

"What?" he presses. Of course. Of course he would insist on hearing the rest of it. This is Peeta – during the Tribute Parade, he'd so cleverly played the audience and insistently drawn me into it; during training he'd spent nearly two hours getting the camouflage on my forearm just right; during his interview, he'd determinedly powered through the flicker of bowel-loosening fear that had passed over his face just to reveal the identity of the girl he's liked for so long. Humiliating himself just to help me. If I've learned anything about him in the last four days, it's that he doesn't do things by halves. He doesn't let others get away with not finishing things, either.

And then I think of all the years he spent not speaking to me back in Twelve and my thoughts fracture around that one uncontestable point.

"It makes about as much sense as what?" he repeats and I have to admit that whatever had been holding him back has finally lost its grip on him. Somewhere along the way, his quiet curiosity has turned to outspoken courage.

I clear my throat. "Volunteering," I choke out.

He leans his head back against the wall and gives me a small, knowing grin. I wiggle my toes in the space between us on the window seat. It's either that or watch them curl for no reason at all.

"That's just what I mean," he whispers. He shakes his head and I realize that his smile is admiring now and it's still focused on me. "No matter what happens, you've already outmaneuvered them, in a way."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"Katniss," he says softly but with urgency, "you're going to win this thing. It's going to be you."

I shake my head in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

He gives me a long, somber look. "I want you to go home. To your sister."

"More than you want to live? That's just…" I have no words for how ridiculous that sounds. "Peeta—"

"She needs you more than my family needs me."

Why is he so stubborn? Why does he insist on giving and giving and giving to me? I don't want to take it. I turn away and, as I gaze out at the city lights, I glimpse the reflection of his profile in the glass and I wonder… Could I do it? I'd promised Prim I'd come back, but…

I stop and I think about the task ahead of me in the arena. I stop and _think_ about killing, helping to kill, or standing back and waiting for the death of each and every kid that I'd seen on stage tonight. I might not be all that sad to see Cato go, but what about the tributes like little Rue from Eleven? Even if I manage to be the victor of these Games, will I still be _me?_ I'll go home a murderer, for killing is killing, either by action or inaction. I study Peeta's reflection, watching him watch me. I think about my return. I think about Peeta's funeral.

_No._

"I can't do this," I realize.

"Don't be ridiculous," Peeta replies. "You're a hunter. It's no different than—"

I should have slugged Gale when he'd said those very same words. They are not comforting. They are demeaning, dehumanizing. Unforgivably inhumane. I may not be good with people but, damn it, I am not a monster. "It _is _different," I hiss, my fingers digging into the flesh around my knees. "I can't go in there hoping you'll die. Expecting… _letting _you die."

He blinks once. He swallows audibly. His lips part and I hear him breathe my name out in question. If not for the hope in his eyes, I wouldn't have known what he was asking at all.

But I think I do.

"Would you lie to get sponsors?"

He frowns. "I might."

"Did you?" That's as close as I can come to asking if he'd meant what he'd said in his interview with Caesar a few hours ago.

What follows is _not_ the longest moment of silence I've ever experienced in my life, but it ranks in the top five. Eventually, Peeta shakes his head. "I didn't lie. I meant what I said."

Shit. I don't know what to do or think…

He draws another breath. "And Haymitch is right. If you can use it to get sponsors, you should. I'll help you whenever I can. Maybe I can lead the others off your trail if I—"

"Stop," I gasp. I can't listen to him talk like this.

He looks horrified and sad and utterly dejected. As if I've somehow turned down more than just his unwanted and unsolicited help. "One of us should go home."

An idea flickers to life and I recklessly grab ahold of it. I know I might be walking right into a very clever trap – and Peeta is clever and charming and dangerously likeable – but I can't _not_ promise, "No, _both _of us should go home."

Thanks to Peeta's confession, any other strategy is now impossible.

I press, "You've made us _both_ unforgettable. If I go home, you're coming with me, Peeta. You have to."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," I reply slowly, reaching out a hand to him. I wait until he takes it before finishing my thought, "we're a team."

"A team," he echoes, his fingers tightening around mine. "Katniss, the Gamemakers aren't going to like this."

"I don't care."

"I could be lying to you right now."

"You're not."

"How do you know?"

"I don't." But the pain and desolation that pinches his expression isn't fake and that does more to convince me than anything else.

He glances away. I watch his Adam's apple bob. The set of his jaw is stubborn. I'm not always good with coming up with the right words all on my own, so I borrow some of his. "I don't want them to change me, either." And accepting that one of us has to die, _letting _that happen, would change me.

"You promised Prim," he reminds me.

"And what kind of person would I be if I let something happen to you? Everyone in Twelve saw your interview, Peeta." And if I abandon him or he me, they'll never forgive us. Winning would mean losing in the worst possible way.

He closes his eyes briefly and I know that he finally gets it. "Shit. I didn't mean to…"

"I know." And I believe him.

"All I was thinking was that the interview might be my last chance to speak up and have it count for something."

I'd like to think his confession would have counted for something – perhaps even more than it currently does – if he'd made it in private. I can't see myself reacting any differently than I had earlier this evening, but maybe I would have trusted him enough, been honest with myself enough, to be better. I sigh. I guess we'll never know. "Well, it counts now," I whisper, frustrated that it has become another part of the Games. "We'd be idiots not to use it to our advantage."

He frowns. "You mean… about sponsors?"

"I think that, by sticking together, we'll have a better chance of getting sponsors. Like Haymitch said." I still don't really believe that the Gamemakers will let us both live, but I have to try. Peeta's confession demands it now.

"So, it's all an act," he intones flatly.

I sigh. God, this is confusing, but I don't let go of his hand. "If you're honest with me, I'll be honest with you, okay? Partners."

"Okay," he tells me. His voice is rough, but his grip is warm and strong. He doesn't let go. "So what's the plan tomorrow?"

I bite the inside of my cheek in thought. "I don't know. We'll need some supplies, but…"

He nods in both thought and agreement. "We can't take on the Careers at the Cornucopia."

"So, if one of us is close to a pack or some supplies, we should grab it and then turn, run, and find each other once we're under cover."

"And then we look for water."

"And then we look for water." Peeta's thumb rubs over the back of my hand, back and forth, back and forth. It's mesmerizing and soothing. I turn our strategy over and over in my mind, trying to eke out every last possible advantage. When an idea comes to me, I don't hesitate to tell him, "And you should use my training score if you get in trouble."

"What?"

"Make a deal."

"You mean if—"

"If we don't find each other before the Careers do." I keep talking, working through the plan aloud, "Tell them you lied in your interview to try to gain an edge. Tell them you stuck by me in training so you'd know what I'm good at and how to track me. Just be sure to keep the specifics in reserve or you won't be much use to them anymore."

"What are you going to tell them if they catch you?"

"They won't. Unless they're really good at climbing trees." I smile wryly at the thought.

"Right," he answers, chuckling. "You're an amazing climber." He squeezes my hand before I can throw together a reply.

I meet his gaze. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look at me like this before. I'd seen appreciation in Gale's eyes whenever I'd managed a supposedly impossible shot. I'd seen admiration in Prim's whenever I'd brought a particularly filling dinner home. This look is both of those and yet more than the combination of the two.

His thumb moves again. "If we get separated and I get caught… if that happens, I will lead them on a merry chase for as long as I can."

"And I'll be looking for you. When I find you, I'll help you, so stay alive." I know I shouldn't be making this promise. Peeta could turn on me in the arena. But this is the boy who gave me the bread that saved my life, the bread that helped me live to see another day, a day with dandelions and the reminder that spring had arrived and – with it – hope. He'd taken a beating for me that rainy day just as surely as I'm taking a chance on him now. And, if I'm wrong about him, what will it matter? Peeta could snap my neck in an instant. I'll probably be dead within seconds of figuring it out. If I ever figure it out at all. I'm shocked for the second time tonight when I realize how very much I don't want face a world where the boy with the bread becomes a villain. I don't want to even think about it.

I focus on his hand instead. His warm and steady grip. It's comfortable. I don't want to let go.

"I'm still going to do everything I can to make sure you win, Katniss."

I shake my head. "Don't. Don't promise me that."

"What should I promise?"

"Stay with me?" I propose. "No matter what."

His other hand finds my chin and tilts my face up until our gazes meet. His eyes have never looked bluer. It really is becoming my favorite color. He vows, "I'm on your side, together or apart. No matter what."

"Okay," I say just for something to say. This connection – our solemn silence – resonates, threatening to rattle me to bits. I'm relieved when he lowers his hand. "Thank you, Peeta," I say, surprising myself as much as him.

"For what?"

The words get all tangled up in my throat. There are so many things to thank him for. And there are just as many to damn him for. The Games begin tomorrow and I have to wonder if I'm the only one who's going to have trouble playing by the rules.

_There can be only one victor._

No. I can't think like that. I won't.

I slide my feet off of the seat and, using my grip on his hand, pull myself close enough to press a brief kiss to his cheek. His entire body stiffens. I think he even holds his breath. His hand spasms in mine and, in the moment before I lean away, I take a breath. How can a person possibly smell of warmth and hope? I don't know. But Peeta does.

"Katniss?"

"Partners," I manage to choke out. I move back and meet his wide eyes. "I'm counting on you not to die on me." _Or kill me._

He nods, looking completely dumbstruck. His fingers are still clutching mine. I'm trying to decide whether or not to mention it when he finally draws in a breath. His gaze drops to my lips.

_He's not acting._

I shove that thought aside. Maybe he isn't acting. Maybe he really does… care about me that much. But the arena might change him. It might change me. I shouldn't take anything for granted, but I think I already have.

"I trust you, Katniss," he murmurs. I remain perfectly still as his other hand slowly lifts to my jaw once again. His fingers brush through my hair. And then he brings our joined hands up to his lips. He's still watching me intently and I can feel his warm breath against the back of my hand.

I am entranced. My heart pounds, but I can't move. Peeta's impossibly long eyelashes flutter as he shuts his eyes and presses a warm kiss to my skin. Of all the kisses in the world, of all the kisses that I'd known existed yet never wanted, never had any ambition to experience for myself, never daydreamed of like other girls my age, this is the one that destroys me. It is everything that Peeta is: warm, gentle, giving, genuine.

Maybe that's why I'm blindsided by it. Time stops. My stomach tightens and my lungs stop working. I suddenly notice how very warm he is and so close, closer than I'd expected. I shouldn't be this nervous. My chest shouldn't feel this tight. It's just a press of lips against the back of my hand. That's all.

Isn't it?

I feel my lips part in reaction to this simple touch. The kiss is brief and careful, but I don't pull my hand away. In fact, I rub my thumb against his. He pulls back slowly, eyes still shut, and sighs. He looks so young, so trusting. Vulnerable. I shiver.

His fingers slide deeper into my hair and my hand finds his shoulder, my fingers curling into his shirt. His muscles are hard. I was right about him being strong.

His fingers stir, caressing my hand, feathering against the back of my neck. He holds me so tenderly that, against my better judgment, I decide I will believe him. I will believe _in _him.

He opens his eyes and gives me a soft smile that shrinks the whole universe down to the two of us. "Do you think you can sleep now?" he asks, his thumb now moving over my cheek.

I laugh softly. The sound makes my already frazzled nerves jangle. "Hardly." I've never felt more wide awake in my life.

"Then… stay?" he says, his eyes fathomless in the gloom as he searches my expression. He shifts over to make room for me against the side wall of the window seat. Next to him.

Because I am safe here and now – and because he is probably the only person besides myself that I'll be able to trust in the arena – I accept the invitation. Sliding in beside him, he loops one arm around my shoulders and I tuck myself up against his side. He is solid muscle and heat and I'm suddenly reminded of how my father used to hold me on the sofa in front of the living room fire, how I used to fall asleep in the curve of his arm. I close my eyes and nuzzle Peeta's shoulder. He doesn't smell like astringent soap, traces of lingering coal dust, or autumn breezes. He doesn't smell like my father, but I remember how it felt to be loved.

I breathe deeply, focusing on the scent of the boy next to me. I know I'll be asleep in minutes, just as soon as the lingering butterflies in my belly settle down. I lean my cheek against him and just let go.

I'm on the very edge of sleep when I feel him shift beside me and press a kiss to my crown. My imminent slumber is the only reason why I don't have to fight against the hot prickle of tears.

* * *

**Notes:**

So, big paradigm shift for Katniss, yeah? Here she is getting on board the "I will not be a piece in their Games" train. Clear the way for Epic!Katniss.

I've drawn several of Katniss' thoughts from the books (e.g., Peeta's long eyelashes) and I'm embellishing the dialog from the movie, expanding it as Katniss buys that aforementioned clue. She is not going to be admitting to any warm and fuzzy feelings anytime soon, though. (So, brace yourself for Stubborn!Katniss.)

Reviews would be super motivational! I'm also on Tumblr (manniness) and Live Journal (manniness).

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Careers":**

I glance across the sunlit field at Katniss. Our eyes meet.

I mouth, _Together._

She nods.

**Recommended fic:**

"Finding Home" by DustWriter. I really love how Peeta and Katniss grow together in this story and become family unit. (And since the family theme pops up here in Katniss' POV, this seems like a great time to rec it.) **  
**


	8. The Careers

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy the geek-out moment I have... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "Girl on Fire" by Arshad

* * *

**The Careers**

* * *

I've wasted so much time.

I want to kick myself for waiting so long to tell Katniss how I've always felt about her and, at the same time, I want to whoop in victory because here she is, sitting with me. The arm I've looped around her shoulders is slowly going numb. I'm so warm all down my left side in stark contrast to the chill radiating through the glass window on my right. I'm the luckiest guy in the world tonight. The girl I want is sitting with me. Maybe she doesn't like me back the same way I like-maybe-love and definitely-want her, but one day she might. She promised to be honest and I'm going to hold her to that. She trusts me, anyway, and that's no small thing. Not from Katniss Everdeen.

And I'm too selfish to try to convince her not to. I give up. If she wants to trust me, I'll take it. I'll trust Haymitch for both of us. It'll be fine. She'll be fine.

It's fine.

I relax against her, close my eyes, and replay the feel of her lips brushing my cheek, the scent of her skin, the heat of her against my lips. For a moment, I'd almost lifted my mouth to hers, but I hadn't trusted my control. Her fiery fury from earlier is still at the forefront of my mind and it would have been too easy to get lost in that intensity.

And I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have responded well to having me shove my tongue in her mouth. Especially since I have no idea how to do it well. I live for that warm look in her eyes, that genuine smile that lights her face. I'd rather die than do something to cause her to stop looking at me like that, to stop smiling for me. Maybe I'll die without ever having been kissed, but I'll die as her friend. I'm selfish enough to want that, to need that, to take it.

I eventually fall asleep, my cheek leaning against the top of her head. My own internal clock rouses me at dawn – baking time! – and I'm greeted by the soft, regular puffs of her warm breath against my neck. I don't want to let her go, but I know I have to. Katniss wouldn't want anyone catching us like this. Haymitch would mock us. Effie would scold us. Katniss would feel weak.

She is not weak.

I whisper her name, trace the line of her cheek with my thumb, and lean back a bit so I can watch her wake up. Her lashes flutter. She shifts, glances around to get her bearings, inhales deeply and then…

And then her gaze meets mine and the warm, welcoming look she gives me is one I know I will _never_ forget. True, she might be playing this up, drawing me in so she can kill me in the arena – that's what the Games are designed to make all of us think – but I don't believe it. I won't believe it. I refuse to play their game.

Of the two of us, she has the best chance of going back home, but I don't know if she can really focus on that now because her going home means that I die. That's still the plan, but I know I'm on my own as far as that goes; I feel like a complete and utter ass for my admission during my interview with Caesar last night. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Haymitch had approved it, even. But looking beyond the arena, it's clear that Katniss can't stand back and let me die if she hopes to go home, to be _welcomed_ back home. I've chained us together, but I refuse to hold her back, to drag her down.

For now, I focus on the unguarded look in her eyes. "Hey," I tell her.

"Hey," she answers, making no move to slide off the ledge. I struggle to breathe normally. "Did you sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too."

I know. I curl my fingers a little tighter around her shoulder in reply. We watch the sunrise and it's only when we hear a soft stirring from upstairs that she slips off the window seat. She chews the inside of her cheek. Her awkwardness endears her even more to me.

"I'll see you later," I say, smiling. It feels like my first real smile in days, weeks, forever. I'm just so happy that we're okay in this moment. My joy eclipses everything… even the Games.

She nods, her mouth forming a small but sincere echo of my grin. "See you later."

I lean my head back against the wall and watch her walk away. I press my fists to my thighs, still tingling from her presence. When she leaves, she takes all of my distractions with her and reality is suddenly there, pressing its ugly face against the cold glass of the windows, peering in at me with an evil smirk. I hold back the sudden but inevitable wave of rage and hopelessness. Damn it, why had I waited so long? She might actually like me a little after all and now… I'll never know what could have been.

I have to clench my jaw tight to hold back the tears. Tears won't help Katniss.

With a sigh, I make my way upstairs to my room.

I don't see her again until we're standing on the pedestals circling the Cornucopia. The countdown has begun and I suddenly think of the sketch Portia had tucked into the inner lining of my heat-reflective jacket, her parting hug in the Stockyard, and the message I'd asked her to pass on: "Tell Haymitch I still haven't changed my mind. I'm going to do everything I can to give him plenty to work with."

I glance across the sunlit field at Katniss. Our eyes meet.

I mouth, _Together._

She nods.

I have thirty seconds left to take in the items strewn about the field. There's something near Katniss on a small sheet of plastic and I spot a backpack a bit further out. There's a sleeping bag near me and, if I dare to go for it, a belt pack with various zippered pockets, all bulging with hidden treasures.

I lick my lips and brace myself. I am not a fast runner and I've promised Katniss that I won't die on her. I calculate the distance between my pedestal and the woods at my back. I wonder how long it'll take the first Career to reach the first weapon. I weigh my chances of being singled out.

5.

Oh, God. What am I doing?

4.

Katniss is counting on me.

3.

We're a team.

2.

Partners.

1.

Go.

I dive for the sleeping bag, lose my footing and roll toward the belt pack. Then I'm scrambling to my feet and pounding for the edge of the woods. My heart is thundering in my ears, but I can still hear the cries and pleading and the soft, wet sounds of flesh being torn and the hard, sickening cracks of bones being broken.

Katniss.

Oh God, please let her make it. Just inside the thick bushes at the edge of the forest, I turn and scan the arena for her. She's down, clutching an orange and black backpack, caught in the sights of the girl from Two, the one who is lethal at throwing knives. There's one in her hand.

_No!_

Before I can crash through the brush – I'll never get there in time! _Katniss!_ – the blade is a blur slicing through the air. Katniss pulls the backpack up to protect her chest and face. The knife hits it dead center, but she's up and running before Clove can weigh whether or not to risk losing another weapon.

I wait until Katniss disappears into the foliage before I hurry deeper into the woods, light-headed with relief. In fact, not only is Katniss all right, but she's got a knife now. Heading in her direction, I keep to the forest and try to ignore the sounds of battle coming from the meadow.

I sling the bedroll over my shoulder as I run, cutting through the brush in her general direction, and then clip the belt pack around my waist. Cutting across the terrain as I am, I suppose it's only a matter of time before I cross paths with another tribute. I'm still shocked as hell when I do.

I pull up short as a body crashes through the brush just ahead. I have no time to dive for cover before he sees me. The brief hope that he won't notice me out of the corner of his eye is dashed when he skids to a stop. I recognize him as the boy from District Four in the instant before he pulls a knife from his belt.

_Shit._

I turn and run.

I curse him in my head as I plow through the forest. I don't bother trying to weave between the trees because, frankly, I don't think he'll risk throwing the knife and losing his weapon. I don't know if it's luck or not, but yet another tribute bursts from the brush right between us. A girl. I can't remember which district she's from.

And then it doesn't matter. The boy from Four is on her and she's too stunned to react. So am I. The moment it occurs to me that I might be able to help her, Four is lashing out with his dagger. I'm too far away to do anything and, if I stop now, he'll catch me. There's nothing I can do to save her.

Goddamn it.

I think of my promise to Katniss.

_"I'm counting on you not to die on me."_

I keep running.

My mad dash slows to a jog, but I keep moving. I may not be a fast runner, but I've got staying power. I spare a thought for maybe pulling ahead of District Four far enough to circle around back to the direction in which Katniss had run. I need to find her, but I don't want to run into anyone else. Maybe I'll wait until sunset, when everyone's starting to think about setting up camp and settling down for the night. I should have a little time before the Careers set out on the hunt.

So I keep moving, hating how my footsteps echo in the silence. I've never been in a forest before and every sound that I hear makes me jump. Katniss would probably laugh if she could see me right now.

Hours pass. I find water before I encounter another tribute, but I don't dive in. Daylight has just begun to fade. My thirst will wait. Shelter will not. I find a cluster of rocks and wedge myself in among them to take stock of what I've got. I need to eat something and rest my legs and lungs before I try to find Katniss.

Since it's an obstacle between my back and the furthest reaches of the rocky alcove, I pull the sleeping bag forward and examine it first. I unroll it enough to measure one end: it's meant for one, comfortably. Two if they're _really_ keen on sharing space. I can't help but wonder if Katniss would fit in it with me. If she'd even want to.

I let out a shaky breath and turn my thoughts away from where that train leads. The utility belt has food, glorious food, in several pockets – dried meat and fruit, nuts, and a heavy soda bread – and in others I find some wire for setting snares, matches, and a small drinking cup. But no water purifying solution.

Damn it.

Still, my haul is better than I'd expected. Maybe, combined with the contents of Katniss' backpack, we'll have a decent—

The sound of a footstep freezes me. I hold my breath, listening. The water is loud, rushing over rocks and splashing down the slight incline toward the lake, so the new arrival must be close by. I wonder if it's the boy from Four.

_Move on. Move on. Move on._

I will the person – whoever it is – to keep going, but they don't. They tramp up behind my meager fortress of rocks and I listen as they start breaking sticks. Oh shit. This idiot is going to light a fire and get both of us killed.

I have no weapon except for my own two hands and whatever nearby rock I can pick up. My heart is pounding and I don't want to think about killing the kid who is maybe three yards behind me, taking shelter on the other side of the rocks along the river bank, but I'd promised Katniss that I wouldn't die on her.

The sun sets. This would be my chance to continue on my quest. Instead, I sit here cold and pissed off, hating the universe. All I want is to find Katniss. Is that so much to ask?

Apparently, it is.

The sky darkens and the anthem plays. This would be the perfect opportunity for me to sneak off except that I'm between the kid with the campfire and the images of the fallen tributes. If I move now, I'll be seen.

I resign myself to waiting a bit longer. I should be able to move on while the kid is sleeping. I'd rather not have to kill someone although I realize that I won't be able to avoid it indefinitely.

Sighing, I scan what I can see of the river and spot a natural shelf on the opposite bank that I might be able to squeeze under. The sleeping bag is grey, just like the rocks, so that might help hide my position until I can drag up some silt and leaves and—

And then it doesn't matter what my plans are. I hear voices, laughter, the sound of a blade slicing through the air and the squeal of a dying tribute. The cannon booms and then the voices resolve into four, all of which I'm pretty sure belong to the Careers from District One and Two.

They sure as hell hadn't wasted any time forming an alliance.

The four of them are two, maybe three, yards away from me and here I sit with no camouflage, no weapon, and no chance in hell of keeping my promise to Katniss. But I have to try. If I'm going to die, then I want it to mean something.

No sooner do I feel my resolve settle around me than I hear a pair of boots scuffing against the top of the rock that shelters me. I hold still, but I know it's only a matter of time before—

"Well, well, well! Look what we have here."

I glance up and sigh, grinning wryly at Marvel's delighted expression. He has a curved blade in his hand and I know I've only got a couple of seconds before he finds himself a weapon better suited to stabbing down between the rocks.

"Hey," I greet. "Sure glad you guys found me."

Marvel laughs. "And why is that, Twelve?"

"Because it was only a matter of time before _she_ did," I answer and shrug. "You know what they say about a woman scorned." _I'm sorry, Katniss._

"Oh-ho!" he cheers.

Another footstep and I see Cato smirking down at me. He's holding a sword that is more than up to the job of finishing me off, but he's still riding the high from his kill and it looks like he's willing to play. "Your confession not get you as far as you'd hoped, Lover Boy?"

"It got me plenty far," I tell him. My leer feels like it splits my face in two and breaks my heart in half. "And I'm pretty sure she's gonna skin me alive once she gets her hands on me."

Cato snorts with humor. Marvel barks out a laugh.

I segue into a comment that I hope will save my life… for now: "Which is why I'm sitting here trying to keep the hell away from her trail."

"You found her trail?" Clove demands from behind me.

I twist around and smile wryly up at her. "Sure, but you gotta know what to look for."

"And you do?" she sneers.

"Why do you think I was glued to her side at the Training Center? I just about shit myself at the Reaping when I realized I'd be going up against Katniss Everdeen. Everyone back in Twelve knows she's lethal." I squiggle up a bit from my crouch, wondering if I have time to let some of the circulation flow back into my cold, stiff legs. Just in case I have to make a run for it. "I came across her snare further up and headed straight down here," I lie. I lie like I've only ever lied to my mother to avoid a beating. I'm torn between feeling appreciative and angry over the fact that I have the skill at all.

"Why didn't you just go after her?" Glimmer demands, peering at me from over Cato's shoulder.

I hold up my empty hands. "With what? Sure, I can track her, but unless I've got a weapon, the only good that does me is keeping our paths from crossing."

Marvel scoffs. "You're bullshitting us. No way is she even a contender in here."

I give him a long, steady look. "A score of eleven isn't bullshit."

His smile fades. He glances at Cato, differing to the alpha male of the pack. I turn my attention in his direction and, taking a chance, I spread my hands wide and say, "So, what's it gonna be, man? Do a guy a favor and help me kill her before she gets me or… not?"

Cato reaffirms his grip on the sword as he stares down at me. I hate the bastard, but I have to force my expression into something resembling self-depreciating amusement. I have to make him believe that I know I'm a dead man walking… and that I'd rather be taken out by a real fighter instead of some pissed-off girl.

_I'm with you, Katniss._

I test my toes, wiggling them in my boots. I know I won't get far with the four of them surrounding me and Clove's fingers fiddling with a very sharp knife.

The silence goes on too long. I drop my arms. "All right. Just get it over with, then. Good luck finding her. It's not like the Gamemakers are gonna make it easy." I shake my head and chuckle. "E-le-ven," I mutter to myself and get ready to run.

"Okay," Cato says, coming to a decision. For a second, I think my ears must be playing tricks on me. That had almost sounded like a you-can-live-another-day sort of "okay." He points the sword at me and orders, "You track her. We kill her."

And after that, they'll kill me, but I've got nothing to bargain with, so I just nod. "Deal."

_I'm so sorry, Katniss._

But I'm equally glad that we'd talked about this. She knows this is a possibility. I just hope she understands… even if no one back home does.

I leave the sleeping bag tucked amongst the rocks. I probably won't need it tonight and I have no idea how long I'll be able to keep up this charade, anyway. Not long, likely. So it's not as if I'll be getting any use out of it.

Cato motions with his sword as I climb out of the rocks. "Lead the way."

* * *

**Notes:**

In the film, when Haymitch takes Katniss up to the hovercraft that will transport her to the arena, he almost says something. Maybe he almost tells her that Peeta is on her side. Maybe he almost tells her that Peeta really does love her. Who knows. I just know that I have much FEELS for What Haymitch Does Not Say.

Reviews are always welcome! Or come visit me on Tumblr (manniness) and LiveJournal (manniness).

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Snares":**

Glimmer and Cato linger behind. My footsteps are loud, but I can still hear the exchange taking place behind me. "Are you sure we shouldn't just kill him?" she whispers playfully.

"He's our best chance of finding her," Cato replies.

I'm also their _worst _chance of finding her.

I smile.

**Recommended fic:**

"Keep the Blood in Your Head" by atetheredmind on Archive of Our Own - I love how Peeta talks his way into the Careers' Alliance in this fic. Oh, and Haymitch is EPIC.


	9. The Snares

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "All Fall Down" by OneRepublic

* * *

**The Snares**

* * *

Oh, shit.

This is bad.

"Still waiting for the trail you promised us, Twelve," Clove hisses irritably.

I brace my hand on a nearby tree trunk and let out an unsteady breath at the sight of an expertly constructed snare at its base. I don't even have to check the knots to know that it's one of Katniss'.

"Whatcha got there, Lover Boy?"

I don't bother to hide my scowl. The nickname is really starting to irritate me. Why does Cato insist on calling me that, anyway? To make me feel useless and weak is my guess. I just hope he doesn't have some kind of creepy crush on me.

"Her snare," I answer, knowing I can't pass my hesitation off as anything else. Not this time. About five minutes ago, I'd tramped past another of her traps. She'd tucked it under some brush and the only reason I'd noticed it at all was because I'd been scanning the forest floor for it. The rabbit caught in it had forced me to look away quickly; I doubted that Cato would just leave it alone if I pointed it out. Not that the Careers would be interested in preparing and eating wild game, where would be the need what with their monopoly on the supplies. They'd take it for no other reason than to hurt another tribute's chances of survival. So, I'd left the snared rabbit behind and kept moving on… until I'd nearly stepped in this one.

The cold rocks by the river hadn't helped my overused and cramped muscles at all and now they're shaking from fatigue. My stomach has moved past hungry and started gnawing on my intestines, and I haven't slept since dawn yesterday, so I'm not exactly at the top of my game at the moment. That's why I let the Careers figure out that I've found something. And then I'd stupidly admitted to it being _her_ snare before I could think twice.

Damn it.

Although, with as impatient as they've been getting, Cato probably would have killed me if I'd told them the snare had been set by someone else. And, yeah, I know I'm going to die in here, but I can't see how me dying _now _is going to help Katniss much.

I crouch down on the pretense of studying the trap. Really, I just need a minute to think, to try and get my head together. My heart is pounding because I know Katniss must be nearby. It's unlikely that she'd be directly above the snares, but she's within a five- or maybe ten-minute walk.

I'm not really worried that the tributes I'm leading will see her. She's probably up in a tree somewhere, safely concealed in the darkness; all during the trek, I've been careful not to look up into the forest canopy and tip the Careers off to where she might be hiding. And, anyway, the sounds of my footsteps are so loud I'm sure she'll hear me coming from a half mile off. I trust her to stay out of my way.

_Don't try to save me, Katniss._

I wish there was some way I could get that message to her. How stupid I'd been to let her promise to help me if I got into trouble with the Careers. She'll get herself killed if she goes up against them… and I can only die to save her once.

Cato's sword crosses my vision and I flinch back, almost losing my balance and falling on my ass as he spears the trap, triggering it and rendering it useless.

Ignoring the one with the rabbit had definitely been the right call. I can image Cato completely obliterating the animal's corpse out of spite and leaving it to rot in the bushes.

"Hey," Glimmer suddenly breathes. "Listen."

I look from the slow smile spreading across her face to the flicker of bloodlust in Clove's eyes. Marvel chuckles softly and Cato sums up the soft, intermittent pops and snaps that float on the night breeze: "Sounds like a campfire."

He grins and leads the way. For a minute, I debate taking a chance and running in the opposite direction, but I know I won't get very far. And, honestly, I can probably do more good for Katniss if I stay with the Careers and try to lead them away from her. If she figures out what I'm doing, she'll probably be pretty mad at me, but I think it's worth the risk.

Yes, I'll stay. I'll do whatever I can to help Katniss. Even if there's nothing I can do for the girl who is even now being ambushed beside her campfire.

I hang back. I don't want to watch. I don't want to see it.

_Coward._

I guess that's never going to change. I should get used to it.

The cannon sounds.

Glimmer shrieks with laughter.

"That was too easy," Clove announces smugly.

"Maybe our girl on fire will be more of a challenge," Marvel speculates. "So long as we don't throw water on her."

I know I only have a minute. The high from the kill doesn't last long. They'll notice that I've dropped behind. My hands shake as my fingers dive into my pack for some soda bread and dried fruit; my mouth salivates even before I've taken the first bite.

A girl is dead and I am eating. It seems so wrong. I hate that I need the sustenance, but I do. I need to think straight. I can't lead the Careers to Katniss with my own stupid carelessness. Nor do I want them to know what's in my pack, so now is the time to dip into my supplies. I nibble quickly on the bread and fruit as I follow after them, resisting the urge to swallow everything whole like I want to. I just manage to get the last bite to go down as Glimmer gives Cato a sickeningly coy impersonation of the dead tribute's last moments.

Cato laughs. "That's a good impression."

It's all I can do not to scream at them.

"Hey, Lover Boy. What's the hold up?"

I tense. "I was just checking her pockets," I offer as I steadily approach. Belatedly, I realize how logical that had sounded. Yes, being logical is good. If I can get them to trust my logic, I'll have even more influence over the decision-making process. That might end up helping Katniss more than anything.

There's something – a presence, I think – that makes me suddenly nervous. And no, it's not Cato's disturbing obsession with calling me that stupid nickname. I think there's something in the trees overhead… or someone. It must be Katniss. She's watching this moment – _me_ – right now.

I keep my head down.

"Did she have anything?" Cato doesn't even pretend to sound interested.

"Just couple of matches," I answer, substituting supplies from my own pack – supplies I can probably afford to lose since I'm not too bad at starting fires – just in case he demands that I hand them over.

"Eh, you keep 'em, then. Are you sure she went this way?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. That was her snare we found back there," I remind him. "We're on the right track."

"How do you know she's still heading in this direction?" Glimmer demands.

I hadn't anticipated this opening. If Katniss really is listening, then this is my chance to warn her. "Because she hasn't found water yet." _There's water beyond and you have to stay away from it, Katniss._ "She's camped between that snare and the river. We'll find her."

_Over my dead body._

I want nothing more than to sit down on the forest floor, curl up in a ball, and sleep, but I can't. The Careers think I have a vested interest in making sure Katniss dies as soon as possible. To illustrate my own commitment to the trek, I follow Clove and Marvel.

Glimmer and Cato linger behind. My footsteps are loud, but I can still hear the exchange taking place behind me. "Are you sure we shouldn't just kill him?" she whispers playfully.

"He's our best chance of finding her," Cato replies.

I'm also their _worst _chance of finding her.

I smile.

And then I wonder if Katniss had overheard that.

I grit my teeth and scowl. She'll either figure out that she has to stay away from here because I'm valuable to the Careers only as long as she hasn't been caught, or she'll hear the threat to my life and try to help me. Oh, God what I wouldn't give to be spending my last days with Katniss, but it's better this way. She has to stay away. She _has _to.

I hear the slight jangle of the metal arrows in the sheath slung over Glimmer's shoulder as she and Cato catch up. How am I going to get those weapons to Katniss? I've never actually seen her shoot, but she must be exceptional. All those one-eyed squirrels don't lie. With a bow and sheath of arrows, Katniss could win this. She could go home to her sister. I have to get those weapons to her somehow.

We reach the river's edge just before dawn, but there's no additional sign of Katniss. Marvel turns back and heads off in the direction of the Cornucopia with a grunt of disgust.

"Some help you were," Clove tells me coldly.

"Hey, she'll be back to check those snares."

She pulls up short, eying me critically. "Oh, really?"

I twitch, a spurt of adrenaline washing through my brain, waking me up and replaying the last few moments for my benefit. That's when I get it.

I'd said _"snares"…_ as in _more than one._ I'd only shown them one.

Oh, shit.

I don't have to look up to know that Clove is officially suspicious of me. Luckily, Cato intercedes before she can gut me, "Then let's check 'em on the way back."

Clove glares at Cato, irritated that he hadn't found this revelation to be all that damning. I decide I can probably live with him calling me whatever dumb name he wants in exchange for preventing Clove from ripping out my spleen.

I make a point of keeping Marvel between myself and Clove, though. Just in case.

We check the snares – I point out both of them this time, relieved to find both empty. The rabbit I'd spotted last night is gone and the trap had been reset, which means that Katniss had to have been in a nearby tree last night. She knows I'm with the Careers. I just wish I knew what she was going to do about it. Hopefully nothing.

I half expect one of the Careers to suggest that someone stay behind and keep an eye on the snares. My tired mind limps along, racing in circles and running into brick walls as I try to think of how to work this to Katniss' advantage.

"Come on," Cato says, startling me. "We've got her hunting ground. We'll get her tomorrow."

I blink and, when I do, I manage to look beyond my own exhaustion and see theirs. The Careers are flagging. They need to make it back to camp and rest. I don't offer to lead the way this time.

As I'm weaponless, no one seems to care that I drop back, bringing up the rear. From this vantage point, I allow myself to scan the boughs and branches above my head. I don't think Katniss would still be hanging around here… but if she is, I want to see her. I imagine spying her crouched on a thick limb above us, her braid hanging over her shoulder and her grey eyes focused on me. She'd be wary, but I'd smile and keep her secret. She'd smile back and all the fear and the lies and close calls from the last twelve hours would have been worth it. Even more than they already are.

But I don't see her.

I keep watching despite knowing that the likelihood of spotting her decreases with every step I take in the direction of the clearing beside the lake. We're almost there – I can see the newly beaten path through the brush ringing the field just ahead – and I'm reminding myself that everything is all right; Katniss is fine; she's safe from the Careers; things could have turned out a lot worse… when I spot a dark shape amongst the treetops.

My heart leaps into my throat, but I don't stop walking. I focus on not stumbling as I squint up at that figure. It's small and lithe.

Katniss?

No. Too small. Too dark. The tree limbs she crouches on are too narrow to support someone of Katniss' weight.

It's Rue.

I remember her from the Training Center. She'd followed Katniss around like a puppy.

"I think you have a shadow," I'd whispered to Katniss at the camouflage station as I'd dabbed texture onto her forearm.

She'd turned just as Rue had ducked back behind the pillar that had been serving as her cover. When Katniss had faced back around, the look in her eyes had been unforgettable. So warm and soft… and then sad.

_Katniss would want me to help her._

And, honestly, I want to help her, too.

Before I can talk myself out of it, my hands move to my pack and I select a strip of jerky, a few dried slices of apple, and a slice of soda bread. I don't have a bag for them, so I have to find someplace to put them for Rue to find. The Careers pass through the brush single-file and this is my chance.

I take it.

I step over to a nearby tree and balance the food on top of a forked branch. I look up and meet Rue's wide-eyed gaze. I don't have time to give her a smile. I head for the clearing, trusting Rue to take my offering on her own.

I emerge from the tree line to the sight of Cato towering over a small, sender boy. The male tribute from District Three, I think.

"Is it done?" he demands.

The kid nods. "Yes," he answers weakly.

Behind him, the girl from Four is holding a spear. She'd look pretty formidable if she weren't obviously dead on her feet.

"Show us how to get to the food," Clove orders and I watch as the boy walks closer to the huge pile of supplies.

So, they hadn't left it all in the Cornucopia. A few years ago, the Gamemakers had removed the Cornucopia from the arena in the middle of the night, lowering it and all the supplies that had been left inside down into the ground. That was the year that a tribute from District Eight had won. And last year, a tribute from Ten had set a fire inside the Cornucopia, destroying everything. It had cost him his life, but his co-tribute had gone on to win the Games.

I suck in a sharp breath as I realize that Haymitch is right: the Careers only win when they have access to the supplies. I eye the pyramid shrewdly. If I can figure out how to take this stuff out of the picture, that would really level the playing field.

The boy from Three is explaining where to step. Clove shadows him, placing her feet with precision that she shouldn't be capable of after hunting in the woods all night. But what's more confounding is why she's even bothering. I'm missing something here.

Glancing around, I spot the pedestals surrounding the now-empty Cornucopia. The ground near them is churned up, as if someone had been digging for potatoes. Frowning, I glance over at the pyramid. The area around it is mostly grassy, but it seems lumpy… as if someone had dug up the field, planted something in the ground, and replaced the turf.

_It's the land mines._

Oh.

Oh, shit. That's smart.

Suddenly, I get why the boy from Three is still alive. He'd bargained for his life just like I had.

Clove returns, satisfied with the path she'd been shown. "I'll take watch," she offers. "Marvel?"

"Yeah, I got it." After he comes back from his trip to the supplies, he tosses a bedroll at me and a container that hopefully holds a food ration. I nod once in thanks and wait for Cato, Glimmer, the girl from Four, and the boy from Three to make their way over to the camp. The last thing I want to do is make a wrong move and step on something that's not just grass and dirt.

The Careers duck into tents. The boy from Three and I collapse on the ground with only our bedrolls. I don't bother to complain. I'm too busy investigating the pack in my hands… which turns out to hold food. Thank God.

I eat half of it as slowly as I can. When I look up, I see the boy from Three watching me. I automatically offer him some. "Have you eaten yet?"

He frowns, looking from me to the half-finished portion of beans, rice, stewed beef, and spinach. "Uh, yeah. I'm good." He looks a little creeped out, so I seal up the container and stow it beside my bedroll. "I'm Peeta. District Twelve," I tell him.

"Bobry. District Three."

"That's nice work. With the mines," I tell him. "I wouldn't have thought to do that." Or dared.

Bobry shrugs. "We all need an angle."

That we do.

"What's yours?" he asks.

I'm so far past exhausted it's not even funny, but I answer, "Tracker."

He frowns at me and I realize that I'm frowning. I try to wipe it away with a smile, but Bobry is smart and I'm the mental equivalent of a wet rag right about now. He's examining me, figuring me out. He probably remembers what I'd said in my interview with Caesar – it's hard to forget someone who looks that pathetic – and he's probably remembering my co-tribute's unbelievably good score and the fact that she didn't die yesterday. If not for that idiotic frown, I might have been able to pull it off, but he'd seen my honest opinion on the matter and now it's too late. I brace myself for his accusation. He's going to expose my strategy, my motives, my deception—

"Good luck with that," he says instead.

"Thanks," I breathe out.

Lying down, I turn my attention up to the sky. Unthinkingly, I reach for the breast pocket of my jacket. I can feel the slight, smooth resistance of the piece of paper tucked into my coat's lining. My sketch of Katniss. I don't dare take it out, but just knowing it's there – just remembering that look in her eyes – infuses me with strength.

I can do this.

I fall asleep with a slight smile on my lips.

* * *

**Notes:**

So, there wasn't much coverage (in either the book or movie) on how Peeta handles his time with the Careers, who he meets and possibly makes secondary alliances with. That's what this chapter and the next one are going to focus on. Enjoy!

I love comments and feedback so don't be shy! Or come visit me on Tumblr (manniness) or LiveJournal (manniness).

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Allies":**

"Just tell me one thing," Marvel continues. "Was it worth it?"

I glance at him and force a knowing smirk as if I'm reliving something very, very naughty. "Oh, yeah," I answer, turning away to grin up at Katniss. Widely. "It was definitely worth it."

**Recommended fic:**

"The Heir to Panem" by DustWriter - I can't say this really matches the theme of the chapter, but this is the fic I keep re-reading when I need a break from my Peeta and Katniss muses.


	10. The Allies

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "Fair Fight" by The Fray

* * *

**The Allies**

* * *

"Psst!"

I just about crash backward into a tree. Whipping around, I look up, squinting against the glare of the afternoon sunlight, and find myself staring at Rue, still tree-bound and out of reach. Well, at least she'd waited until I'd answered the call of nature to scare the crap out of me. I have to clench my jaw shut to keep from snorting with humor at the unintentional joke.

"Hey," I breathe, grinning.

"Thanks for the food," she whispers.

"Sure. You need anything specific, Rue?"

She watches me for a moment – weighing my sincerity much the same way Katniss had done that first day in the Capitol – before she guardedly answers, "A sleeping bag or a blanket?"

"I left one by the river, among the rocks on this side." I point in what I'm pretty sure is the correct direction. "Near a waterfall, I think. The water was pretty loud."

She nods. "I know the place."

"If it's not there, I'll try to bring you another one." But I hope she finds mine because I don't relish the thought of trying to sneak a bedroll past the Careers. I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the meadow camp. All is quiet. Cato and Glimmer are moving around. It's their turn on guard duty. Clove and Marvel were ducking into the tents as I'd left camp for the illusion of privacy. The girl from Four and Bobry are not in sight.

That last observation worries me. I hastily tell Rue, "I know it looks like easy pickings, but don't go for the supplies yourself. The ground is mined."

"Oh. Thanks."

I smile again, relieved. She grins back.

"Are you trying to help Katniss?" She asks so softly I almost don't hear her at all.

I nod. "Have you seen her?" I can't help blurting out the words even though Bobry and the female tribute from Four might be approaching us even now.

Rue shakes her head. I tell myself that's a good thing.

"I don't know where we'll be hunting tonight," I say, apologetically.

"I'll stay out of your way," she replies. Then, tilting her head to the side, she adds, "But I don't think you'd tell them even if you found me."

I chuckle quietly. "Yeah. I'm pretty bad at this stuff."

"I noticed."

I quirk my brows at her.

"I saw you offer your food to the boy from Three."

Well, I guess that explains it. I'm gonna die in here because I'm a nice guy. Wonderful. "Yeah," I say. I head back into the clearing, my lips twisted into a self-depreciating grimace.

"Lover Boy, we were just about to launch a posse," Cato drawls as I make my way over to the camp. He doesn't even look up from polishing his sword.

Somehow, I manage not to roll my eyes. Just then, a motion in the distance snags my attention: Bobry and the girl from Four are hauling water up from the lake. They hadn't overheard my conversation with Rue, after all.

I feel a layer of tension slip from my shoulders.

When I don't answer Cato's jibe, he grunts, "Make yourself useful."

I decide to gather wood for a fire.

As evening approaches, I finish the ration from my pack. Bobry sits on his bedroll not far away, chewing on his nails. He's anxious all right. I would be, too, if I'd just completed my usefulness to the Careers. He'd saved himself from the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, true. He is enjoying life with a full belly, also true. But he has to know that his time is almost up. Unless he can figure out a way to outsmart the Careers, they're going to be scheduling his demise. Imminently.

I don't try to talk to him. He seems to be trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. I guess as long as there are unpleasant tasks that need to be done – the fetching and carrying of water, for instance – they'll keep him around.

My stomach twists as I contemplate his likely fate. I can't really help Bobry. I wish things were different. I wish all we had to do was survive a week in the arena and then all of us – or whoever was still left alive – could go home. But that's not the way it is. There can be only one victor.

I don't have to like it. I just have to accept it.

I try to get some sleep, knowing that we'll be out hunting again tonight, knowing that I have to be sharp. The Careers are well-rested now and if I screw up tonight, they'll notice. Big time.

Cato kicks my boot when it's time to go. Marvel hands me a spear. I doubt he actually expects me to use it. More like he just doesn't feel like carrying a spare.

We head back to the place where I'd spotted the traps the night before and I quickly find several others… leading us deeper into the forest, away from the river. I wish I could convince myself that this is a coincidence, but the new snares have been set up in places with little coverage for game. They're just dummy traps. I'm not a hunter and even I can see that. But just in case it wasn't blaringly obvious, Katniss had thought to leave a signal for me. I crouch down next to one snare and place my hand on the bark of the tree. A few long strands of her hair have been caught in the trunk. The evening breeze blows them over the back of my hand.

Katniss would never be this careless. She must have unbraided her hair just to pull these strands free and leave them here for me. Knowing that she wants me to follow her trail unsettles me. What is she thinking?

After hours of reconnoitering her hunting ground, I still have no idea. There's no sign of her except for the snares and the last one is at the base of a gnarly, leviathan of a tree, gone all knotty and twisted with age. Its branches look arthritic in the moonlight.

We scout the area until dawn.

Katniss stays hidden.

Cato is starting to get frustrated. And, given how much he likes showing off his sword technique, that is not a good thing. "What the hell, Lover Boy?"

"We've got her," I assure him when we reach camp again. I don't put down the spear. I may not be able to use it as well as Marvel can, but it's better than nothing. "We know where she hunts, just not where she sleeps."

"Right," Marvel agrees easily. "So we change the time we hunt. Problem solved."

I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict.

"Okay," Cato concedes. "Let's head out at noon. We'll skirt her hunting area to the south and follow the river up, blocking her in."

I plop down on my bedroll. The girl from Four is guarding the camp with Bobry. I look up and watch his gaze slide away. Yeah, he probably figures that I'm not exactly helping the Careers track Katniss, but he doesn't say a thing… and I have no idea why.

Maybe he's hoping to get my help in taking out the Careers. Maybe he's just biding his time, hoping I'll take one or two of them out for him. Maybe there's a girl back home in Three that he likes. Maybe he's imagining himself in my place and her in Katniss'.

It's all so damn unfair.

I close my eyes…

…and open them on a frown. Something's not right. I sit up, scanning the clearing as a distant sound tickles my ears.

"What is that?" I mutter the words as a strange, subtle roar echoes in the suddenly silent arena. I check the position of the sun. It's only about an hour past dawn and it sounds like the world is ending.

I scramble to my feet, reaching down to collect the spear that I'm still not entirely sure I'll be allowed to use. Squinting, I survey what I can see of the arena, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. It seems to be coming from the forest. From the direction of Katniss' hunting grounds.

Oh, God. No.

I know I must look pale, slack-jawed, and blank-faced with panic. My mouth moves and I breathe her name. The lack of recent deaths has driven the Gamemakers to "liven" things up. Just as this thought occurs to me, I see the plumes of thick, white smoke billowing up toward the sky. My hands curl around the shaft of the spear until the fleshy pads at the base of each finger feel hot and raw.

Unthinkingly, I head for the forest.

"Whoo-hoo!" the girl from Four calls. "Lights, camera, action!"

I barely hear her. I barely notice that she has abandoned her guard post beside Bobry to shake the tents, waking her alliance members.

I'm busy practically holding my breath, waiting for the boom of the cannon, waiting for another death to be announced, wondering if I'll go insane as the hours drag by until the anthem plays after sunset.

If I see Katniss' face in the sky tonight, I don't know what I'll do.

The touch of a hand on my shoulder startles me. I turn and find Bobry gripping my arm, slowly shaking his head back and forth, warning me away from the thoughts that have prompted my panic. Now that I'm aware of the fact that I am totally losing my shit all over the place, I can hear myself hyperventilating.

I clench my jaw and try to pull myself together. When it's clear that I'm not about to pass out, he steps away. Just in time.

The others are flopping and stumbling out of their tents and peering in the direction in which the female tribute from Four is pointing. She squeals with obscene amounts of excitement.

"Right," Cato decrees, "break time's over. Let's catch us a girl on fire."

I've never hated that Capitol moniker more than I do right now.

Bobry is ordered to stay behind. The Careers don't need me to lead them to Katniss now, but no one objects when I fall into step with them. I keep up as best I can despite my churning stomach. There still hasn't been a boom to mark a new death in the arena. I'm almost afraid to breathe, to blink, to hope. Surely, the moment I relax, it will echo through the warming air, obliterating my heart.

Cato leads us on the trek he'd outlined earlier and, the closer we draw to the southern edge of Katniss' hunting grounds, the more certain I am that she'd been the target of the Gamemaker's attention. But there hasn't been a cannon – only the pounding of our footsteps – so Katniss is alive.

Alive, but what about injured? Can she run? Can she hide? Is she armed? Is she ready for this because I don't think I can lead all five Careers off her trail once they catch the scent of blood.

We break from the forest to tromp along the rocks that line the river. Marvel pulls ahead a bit, scanning the water and then—

"There she is!"

I look across the rushing water—

—and right into the pale, drawn features of Katniss Everdeen.

And she is _not _okay.

She struggles to pull herself out of the water, clawing her way into the brush, the orange backpack is a bright bull's eye affixed to her back.

Cato whoops. Glimmer cheers. Clove laughs. Marvel tries to call dibs on her death. The girl from Four – I still haven't learned her name – screeches with the rush of adrenaline.

The hunt is on.

I keep up, trying to conserve my energy, trying to remain inconspicuous. I need a plan. I have one spear and five enemies. Oh, God. What the hell am I going to do?

The Careers dive into the forest, hot on Katniss' tail… which is a trail I recognize. This path leads toward the ancient, crippled tree at the end of her line of snares. My heart slams against my ribs and I grit my teeth together; something is about to happen. We are heading for a battleground of Katniss' choosing, but I have no idea what to expect. None whatsoever. Although I trust Katniss and I know she's smart, I fear that I'm overestimating her. She's only human, after all – capable of making mistakes – and in this place, mistakes can and will get you killed.

The Careers' taunts chase her deeper into the woods. They're not in a hurry, though. There's nowhere for Katniss to really hide in this thinned-out part of the forest. The only place she can go is up. Despite the futility of it, she draws them in, uncaring of the trail of upturned forest debris that she's leaving in her wake. I pray to God she doesn't stumble. If she falls, it'll be all over and shit _what the hell am I going to do?_

Oh, God. I can't stop them from killing her. They'll get her just as soon as she's within throwing range. Even if I pull ahead of them, I'll never be able to come between _both _Clove's knife _and_ Marvel's spear and her. The trees have thinned too much and they'll have a clear shot before I—

I let out a gasp of relief when I see the old tree and spy movement at least thirty feet up. Katniss is climbing. From here, I can see the scowl of determination on her face as she methodically pulls herself up into the massive boughs. I crash to a stop at the base of the thing and gape up at her.

"That's not gonna help you, Katniss!" Glimmer shouts.

I barely hear her. Katniss pauses long enough to look down. Our gazes meet. I let out a breath in relief. She still looks pale and she's moving a little too slow, but maybe she really is fine…

She's careful not to let her gaze linger on me. Her pauses barely lasts a heartbeat before she's climbing again.

"I'll bring her down," Cato announces and, before I can advise him against it, he starts pulling himself up the tree, hand over hand with that damn sword still clutched in his grip.

From above me, I hear a quiet, hoarse laugh. Katniss thinks this is funny? What the hell?

She decides to share the joke with all of Panem, "Coming to rescue a Katniss stuck in a tree, Cato?"

I feel my mouth drop open in disbelief.

Marvel guffaws. "Are you stuck, Katniss?"

"I think so." From what I can see, she appears to be double checking that conclusion. "Yup. Can't come down. Guess that means I've only got one place to go."

She pulls her feet under her and I can see her wince. She _is _injured. And Cato is gaining on her. Goddamn it.

Just as she reaches the next branch, I hear a distinct _snap!_ …then that lack of sound indicative of shock… and then the solid _thud!_ of a body landing on the ground. I twitch my chin down, my brows arching at the sight of Cato lying flat on his back at the base of the tree. It's too much to hope that he'd broken his neck, of course. Coughing and gasping, he pushes himself to his feet, throwing aside Glimmer's offer of assistance.

And then, amazingly, Katniss snarkily commemorates Cato's failure: "Oh, no. My rescuer has been defeated. Whatever shall I do?"

I think I fall in love with her all over again just for that droll tone.

I remind myself that I'm not supposed to chuckle or smile in response to her jibes. I have to keep up the act until I can figure out what to do, what she _needs_ me to do.

Clove grins evilly up at Katniss. "Don't worry. We'll send Peeta up to fetch you."

I startle at the sound of my name and take a nervous step back from the tree, my grip tightening on the spear in my hand. I can feel Katniss' gaze on me and that, combined with my exhaustion and terror for her, pushes me well into the realm of Useless Nervous Wreck. I shake my head adamantly. "No way. I told you guys I'm not going anywhere near her." I know I've got to give Katniss more information, so I gesture expressively. "I track her, you kill her. That's the deal."

Marvel laughs. He seems to be in an exceptionally good mood. Or maybe he's just a jovial kind of guy when it comes to murder. "I've gotta know. What did you _do_ after that interview?"

Shit. I'd known that lie would come back around to bite me on the ass. Katniss is going to kill me for this. Provided I survive long enough.

I rub the back of my neck, honestly mortified and ashamed of myself. "Uh…"

And then Katniss comes to my rescue in the most unlikely of ways. She calls down in a tone far too playful given the circumstances, "Why, Peeta. How _lovely _to see you. Why don't you come on up, _sweetheart?_ Haven't you missed me?"

Marvel roars with laugher. Glimmer shrieks gleefully. Clove snickers. The female tribute from Four actually doubles over, wheezing with mirth. Cato shakes his head in bemusement. "Damn, Lover Boy. She's got us all wondering now."

"Um…" I grit my teeth as I contemplate what I'm about to say next.

Katniss beats me to it. "What's wrong, Peeta? Afraid of a little _pussy cat?"_

Oh. My. God. I feel my face flush bright red and I go with it. I fist my hands, set my jaw, and take all of two purposeful strides toward the tree as if I'm intending on just stomping my way up there and getting this confrontation over with.

"Oh, man," Marvel sputters, holding out a restraining hand. As if he's actually attempting to stop me from heading up the tree after her. "You better not even. She's gonna claw your face off."

I think I see Katniss smirk in my direction. And it looks pretty genuine.

I swallow thickly. I guess she is kinda pissed at me. For getting caught by the Careers. Or maybe for my choice of lies. Or both. As far as screwing up goes, I've done a pretty epic job of it.

"Just tell me one thing," Marvel continues. "Was it worth it?"

I glance at him and force a knowing smirk as if I'm reliving something very, very naughty. "Oh, yeah," I answer, turning away to grin up at Katniss. Widely. "It was definitely worth it."

It's not until the words are out of my mouth and echoing in the forest that I recognize my tone. I'd used it once before, for Katniss only: _"I'm with you, together or apart, no matter what."_

Glimmer makes an exasperated sound. "Forget this," she huffs, clearly getting bored. I watch as she nocks an arrow onto the string of _Katniss' bow_ and lines my partner up in her sights. Before I can dredge up a memory of her proficiency with the weapon from the Training Center, she lets the arrow fly. It lodges into a branch about ten feet above Katniss' head. I start breathing again.

"Gimme that," Cato demands, collecting the weapon. Again, my brain is steeped in terror. Time stops. The arrow misses.

"Maybe you'd have better luck throwing the sword?" Katniss proposes.

Shit. _Shut up, Katniss! Don't push your luck!_

"Let's just wait her out," I interject, voice on edge. I'm eager to forestall any other projectiles being hurled at Katniss. There are no words for how nerve-wracking it is to stand by and force yourself to _watch_ someone shoot arrows at the girl you're up to your neck in love with.

When the Careers look at me expectantly, I explain with a careless shrug, "She's gotta come down sometime. It's either that or starve to death. We'll just kill her then."

A long moment stretches out before Cato relents. "Okay. Somebody make a fire."

Whew.

As Clove starts dictating the layout of tonight's camp, I reluctantly begin collecting windfall. I'm still busy with that as the Careers settle down to enjoy a late lunch, pulling supplies from their packs. I'm tempted to look up and stare at Katniss, but I force myself not to try and catch her gaze. If Katniss has a plan, then I had better not draw attention to it.

_You'd damn well better have a plan, Katniss, because I've got nothing._

I wonder how many of the Careers I can spear in the neck while they're asleep before someone wakes up and takes me down. I guess I'll find out tonight.

It takes about fifteen minutes for me to run out of arm room for hauling more kindling, so I force myself to return to the camp. I use a match from my pack to get a fire going.

Task completed and plan set, all that's left for the time being is to wait.

* * *

**Notes:**

Right, so Rue and Peeta kind of team up here and Katniss has some kind of plan - she's led the Careers to the tree where she'd set her last "obvious" snare. Something's up. (Pardon the pun.)

I love comments and feedback so don't be shy! Or come visit me on Tumblr (manniness) or LiveJournal (manniness).

**Snippet of what's to come next in "Tracker Jackers":**

My jaw aches from how tightly I've clenched it. My breath shortens with terror that I struggle to keep in check.

No, Katniss will not be coming down from that tree unscathed.

**Recommended fic:**

"Saving the Boy" by Embracing_Immensity on Archive of Our Own (AO3) - A great AU in which Katniss mentors Peeta in the Games, and Peeta teams up with Rue.


	11. Tracker Jackers

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "Clear the Area" by Imogene Heap

* * *

**Tracker Jackers**

* * *

Replaying our exchange from a few hours ago – with Katniss in the tree and me standing on the ground with a spear clutched in my hand – it's all I can do not to cringe. I still cannot believe how easily and willingly she'd played along with the story I'd sold to Cato and the others. And I can just imagine what that had sounded like to our families back home.

My mother is going to lose her shit over this.

Katniss' mother is never going to let me come near her daughter again.

But then I remember: only one of us is making it out of here alive. _Katniss _is making it out of here alive… with her reputation ruined. I have never felt so guilty and disgusted with myself in my entire life.

I guess now's as good a time as any to take a leak. Maybe eat shit and die.

Except that I'd promised Katniss that I wouldn't die on her. And, when I go, I want to die helping her survive. Not sure how that's gonna work now. The situation we're in is pretty non-negotiable. It's two against five, and a well-armed and lethal five at that.

I wander dejectedly over to a clump of trees and brush to answer the call of nature. A soft whisper startles me before I can summon up the energy to fight with the fastenings on my pants. "Peeta!"

"Damn it, Rue!" I gasp out to my unofficial ally. "What are you doing here?"

"I followed you."

"I'd guessed that!" I glance in the direction of the camp. It's not even dark yet. What the hell is she thinking?

"Katniss wants you to watch out," Rue whispers to me.

I stare at her. "You spoke to Katniss?"

She nods.

"Just now?" I glance up to the branches above my head questioningly.

She nods again.

I never would have expected that from Rue, but I am extremely thankful for her intervention. Extremely, enormously thankful.

"Watch out for what?" I murmur, impressed that Katniss had somehow recognized Rue as our ally. I'm still not sure why this tiny girl from Eleven seems to trust me. A little food and a sleeping bag can't be the be-all and end-all of an alliance. But Rue's help is a blessing. At least one thing has gone right today.

I grit my teeth as I think of Katniss. She'd been climbing slowly, too slowly. Now that my head is clear of panic and I have a moment to reflect on it, I'm sure that she _is _injured.

Damn it.

"What does Katniss want me to watch out for?" I ask for a second time.

"There's a tracker jacker nest in that tree and she's gonna knock it down at dawn."

My entire body jerks. I hiss through my teeth, "Is she crazy? You can't let her—"

Rue presses a finger to her lips, shushing me. "It's fine. It's still pretty smoky up there. That quiets them down."

"Oh." I still don't like it, but the only alternative I have to offer isn't all that great. I might get one or two of the Careers before the cannon goes off and they get me, but Katniss will still be stuck in that tree, outnumbered by armed, vicious, and well-supplied enemies on the ground. Nothing will have changed: she'll have to drop the nest in order to escape… and I won't be around to help her if she gets stung.

Goddamn it.

"Just don't forget – dawn."

"Okay. Thanks, Rue."

She nods. "What should I do next?"

"Um…" When did I become the expedition leader? I don't turn down her offer, though. I think ahead. Considering Katniss' plan, it's entirely possible she's going to get stung and that could be serious. I don't know the first thing about treating tracker jacker stings, but I do know what she'll need, regardless:

"Can you find a hiding place for her? Not too far away—" Not because I don't think I can't carry her for long but because we might not have much time. "—and easy to conceal?"

"Okay," she answers. I hand her another serving of the contents in my belt pack, which makes her smile. "Thanks."

"Thank _you,_ Rue," I tell her honestly.

She takes off in search of the land feature I'd requested, leaping from bough to branch in near-silence, and I finish up with my own business before returning to camp. The sun is setting and I know the anthem will be playing soon. I can't recall having heard the cannon today. Two solid days of no deaths. People in the Capitol must be bored outta their dyed, plucked, and primped minds.

"Took you long enough," Marvel remarks as I take a seat that is _not _beneath the branch Katniss is on. I haven't spotted the tracker jacker nest, but I don't doubt that it's up there somewhere. The last thing I want to do is point it out to the Careers, though.

"Thanks for the feedback," I grumble at Marvel. "If you'd like a full report on my bowel movements, just say the word."

Marvel snorts out a chuckle. Damn, but the guy has a seriously weird sense of humor. No wonder Glimmer has been hanging all over Cato. If Marvel were my district partner, I'd be creeped out, too.

It occurs to me as I watch the shadows lengthen across the forest floor that the nightly recaps of the Games – the broadcasts we're required to watch back in Twelve – don't do justice to the sheer quantity of waiting that actually happens in the arena. Holy hell, but I'd be bored out of my mind if I weren't dreading the dawn.

Dawn: when Katniss is going to do something suicidal like play around with tracker jackers. Shit. How can I not dread that? I mull over our words to each other, the ones we'd spoken the night before the games. Only now do I realize that while Katniss had promised to help me get away from the Careers, she'd never promised to make sure _she _wouldn't get hurt in the process.

Her plan is insane. If she gets stung, falls from that giant tree—

I can't think about it. I have to trust her. Any other option will make me lose my mind by daybreak.

Every time Katniss shifts on the branches above, my gaze flies upward. The Careers think this is funny and they tease me for worrying that Katniss is going to throw sticks and bugs on me.

"At the very least," I mutter, tucking my cold hands under my arms. The sun is going down and the temperature is falling fast.

The campfire crackles and spits, but I don't bother scooting closer to it. It's already a bit crowded over there and I'd rather keep an eye on Katniss. I guess I've fooled the others into thinking I really am shit-my-britches scared of her because they seem to trust me to act as look-out.

I listen and watch from where I recline back against a tree trunk as Katniss slowly maneuvers higher and higher into the branches. Her movements are slow, stiff. I have no idea how she's going to evade the tracker jackers and climb back down safely.

When the anthem plays, no one bothers to look up at the sky. Cato is heating the blade of his sword in the fire. Glimmer is snuggling against his shoulder. Marvel is dozing lightly. The girl from Four is already fast asleep. Clove is torturing some kind of lizard, using it for target practice. No one notices that Katniss has scaled further up the tree. I can't see what she's doing and I can't hear anything over the sound of the anthem, but I wonder if she's getting a start on sawing through the tracker jacker branch.

I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of her scream. They tell us in school that the stings are excruciatingly painful. But all is silent. The anthem finishes and Katniss remains where she is for a long moment. When she finally navigates back down a safe distance, I see her lean her head against the trunk of the tree.

She's exhausted. She's in pain. She's probably hungry and thirsty, too.

_Just a little longer, Katniss. If you can do this, I can take care of the rest. I'll take care of you._

I have to force myself to close my eyes. I don't expect or intend to fall asleep, but I must have because when I open them again, it's dawn.

I stiffen and glance around the camp. I'm the only one awake so far. Blowing out a silent breath in relief, I look up. I can't clearly make out the expression on Katniss' face from this distance, but I know she sees me slowly sit up. She's already positioned herself near the tracker jacker nest. In the light of day, I can see just how far up that Goddamn tree it is. Oh, God. If she falls from that height…

But it's too late to ask for a do-over now.

She reaches out and begins sawing at the branch.

I carefully roll onto my side. I have to get out of here. I'll be useless to Katniss if the tracker jackers target me, too. I manage to duck down behind a tree several yards away, hating that I can't take her place.

When her first gasp of pain echoes down, I grind my teeth together. When I hear the second, I clutch the crumbling bark of the tree until it jabs the flesh underneath my fingernails. When I hear the third, it's no longer a gasp but a short, abbreviated whimper that makes my chest constrict until it hurts. My jaw aches from how tightly I've clenched it. My breath shortens with terror that I struggle to keep in check.

No, Katniss will not be coming down from that tree unscathed.

I count number four and five, and just when I can't take it anymore, just when I'm sure that the next sting will trigger the swarm and I'll have to sit here and listen to her being engulfed-attacked-tormented-and-_killed,_ I hear a soft crack.

Then another.

The branch breaks. The nest falls. I curl up into a ball, pull my hood over my head, stuff my hands in my pockets, and pretend I don't hear what happens next.

The crash.

The moment of drowsy shock.

The furious drone of hundreds of deadly insects.

The screams.

Oh, God. The screams.

I hear bodies crashing through the woods. One, two, three… Two girls are left behind, screaming and thrashing and clawing at the ground.

I helped do this. I helped Katniss kill these girls.

But I'd made my choice – my choice is Katniss – and I don't regret it. I know I should, but I'm not sure that I can.

The screams and shrieks turn into frantic gurgles and pitiful whines. The buzzing of furious tracker jacker wings fades. I peer around the edge of the tree I'd hidden behind just to be sure.

Yes. They're gone. I don't see either of the girls. I don't even know which two it'd been, but I'm pretty sure one of them had been Glimmer. I'll confirm that later. Katniss needs me now.

I clamor over to the tree, searching the branches for her. She's only about thirty feet up but her arms are shaking and her knees are twitching. The knots her boot tread are gripping look far too insubstantial to support her.

"I've got you, Katniss," I tell her. "Just focus, okay? Just a little further."

I don't know how she manages it, but she makes it all the way down to a bough that looks to be about twelve feet off the ground before she loses her grip. I brace myself for her weight, wrapping my arms around her when she hits my chest, and allowing us both to roll safely – if a bit heavily – back onto the ground.

"Hey," I huff, slightly winded. "I've got you. I've got you."

"Peeta," she gasps, her arms reaching away from me and toward the brush. "Peeta…"

"I'm here. I'm right here." I roll up onto my knees and reach down for her waist.

"Bow," she doggedly rasps. "Arrows."

I hadn't forgotten, but my main priority is Katniss. I urge her onto her side so I can see her face, assess the visible damage, and meet her eyes. Pressing a hand to her cheek, I wait for her to make eye contact with me, although I'm not sure if that will help her understand. She looks pretty delirious. "I'll get them. Just wait here for me."

Her eyes roll and her head falls back, exposing two horrible welts on her neck.

_Not good._

I can hear her labored breaths as I stumble off into the brush in search of Glimmer. She hadn't gotten far before she'd been overcome. I haven't heard the cannon yet, so I assume she's still alive. As I look at her, repulsed by the damage and swelling left behind by the tracker jackers, I experience a moment of clarity. I cannot be like Katniss. Katniss wouldn't hesitate to end this girl's pain. I can't bring myself to go back for the spear that I'd tossed aside moments ago in preparation for catching Katniss. I know I should, but I… can't.

I'm not brave enough to alleviate her suffering. I'm not sure if it's cowardice or bravery that gives me the strength to peel Glimmer's swollen fingers off of the bow and slide the quiver of arrows from her misshapen shoulder. I sling them over my arm and haul ass back to Katniss.

The sight of Glimmer's body is seared into the backs of my eyes. I'll never be free of what happened to her, but I have to focus now. I have to help my partner.

Katniss is clawing at the debris beneath her hands when I stumble back into the clearing. She's still wearing her backpack. The knife is tucked into her belt. I have the bow and arrows. That's all we really need. I wish I could take the spear, which lies discarded only a little ways off, but I don't think I can hold onto Katniss and it at the same time. Unless…

"Can you walk?" I ask her, knowing we need to move and we need to move _now._

"Ngh," she groans.

"I'll take that as a no."

I work my arms under her and as I rock her toward my chest, that's when I see the burned portion of her trousers. Shit. I know burns. Working with hot ovens day after day, you get quite the collection. Kantiss' is serious. It's blistered and raw, weeping with fluids, scratched and bleeding from running through brush and tree-climbing. She'll need medicine to prevent the inevitable infection.

_Damn it, Katniss. It wasn't worth the risk._ She shouldn't have spent so much time trying to lure the Careers into some kind of trap, boring the Gamemakers and forcing their hand with that stupid forest fire. She must have known that there'd be punishment for being so very careful, for avoiding the other tributes, for trying to help me. And she went ahead and did it anyway.

Well, I can yell at her later. Right now, she needs shelter.

"Rue?" I call softly.

A motion from the depths of the woods draws my gaze. It's her and she's gesturing for me to follow. Cradling Katniss in my arms, I climb to my feet. Who would have thought that she would be right: hauling around one-hundred-pound sacks of flour has come in handy in the arena after all.

I try to hurry, but soon discover that a steady pace is best. I can't afford to lose my balance, although it's a near thing when Katniss rolls her head up onto my shoulder and nuzzles my neck.

"Peeta," she murmurs and my heart races.

"Yeah. I've got you," I repeat inanely. I wrack my brain trying to think of something more reassuring to murmur to her, but my thoughts begin and end with the feel of her in my arms. "I've got you," is all I can manage.

"Your eyelashes," she mumbles. "Shiny."

"Are they?" Shit. She's started hallucinating.

"Orange," she chokes out and I think, maybe, she's not as far gone as I'd feared. Maybe she's remarking on my favorite color or her backpack, which is still strapped to her shoulders. But then she adds, "Butterflies. Sour."

Definitely not good. "I wouldn't recommend eating any more of them, in that case," I say, just to hear the sound of something familiar. Katniss' breathy utterances are scaring the crap out of me.

"I smell pink bubbles," she informs me in a moment of semi-lucidity, "when you sing."

"I can't sing, Katniss. Couldn't carry a tune if I had a bucket for it."

"Mud." She shivers and sighs.

I duck under a low-hanging branch, keeping Rue in sight. I desperately want to call her over so she can reassure me that Katniss is going to be all right. I get the impression that Rue, being from an agricultural district, knows a thing or two about tracker jackers. She might even know how to treat the stings and minimize the delirium. It kills me to put off asking for help, but I don't know when the Careers will come back or if another tribute will take advantage of the situation and attack us.

We _need _shelter.

Rue stops beside a slight rise and gestures downward. I shuffle sideways down the small slope and find myself looking at a natural shelf created by the exposed roots of the trees.

"This is great. Thank you, Rue."

She perches on the ledge, watching as I remove Katniss' backpack and lay her on the ground, tucking her up against the dirt wall of the hollow. Her bow and arrows go in beside her. I take the knife from her belt and slide it into mine. There. Now I'm ready for what comes next.

"Is there anything we can do for her?" I look up at Rue and find her in the middle of chewing up what looks like some leaves. My fingers absently brush Katniss' messy hair back from her forehead as I wait for Rue to finish whatever it is that she's doing. I'm surprised when she moves to crouch beside Katniss and places the green paste right on the bulbous sting sites on her neck.

Katniss doesn't open her eyes, but she lets out a weak groan. I watch as green pus begins to seep out of the sores, trickling over her throat.

Gross, but it seems to be helping. The frown lines that had been etched deeply into her forehead ease. A breathy sigh of relief accompanies the application of more leaf paste on her hands and wrists.

"Is she going to be okay?" I have no idea how I get the words out past the fear that's strangling me.

Rue doesn't seem particularly worried, but seeing Katniss like this is toppling every notion I've ever had of her: the stoicism I've always feared and admired has evaporated like mist.

"She already pulled the stingers out, so I think so. She'll be out for a day or two, though."

A day or two. Damn. I've been missing her for days already – going out of my mind with worry – and now I'm going to have to wait even longer.

"I should check to see if she got stung anywhere else," Rue says, glancing at me meaningfully.

"Huh? Oh. Right." I guess that's my cue to make myself scarce for a bit.

Rue bites her lip and grins.

"What?" I demand.

"You were lying to the Careers about you and her, weren't you?"

I guess I'm still a bit slow in the wake of my receding adrenaline because I have no idea what she's talking about. "Huh?"

She gives me a knowing look.

Suddenly, I get it. I lean back on my heels and glance away, flushing. "Oh. That. Yeah. I lied. Katniss and I are just friends."

Rue turns back to Katniss and starts unzipping her jacket. "You're a good friend, Peeta."

I suspect she's not just talking about my connection to Katniss.

"But I'm pretty sure she's not gonna want you to see her naked."

Hell. Can my face get any redder? "I'll lift up her shoulders so you can get her jacket off. And then I'll… uh… go away."

Rue giggles.

I roll my eyes at her… and at myself. I'm acting like I'm all of twelve years old.

But I can honestly say that I don't mind straddling Katniss' legs and lifting her up, leaning her chest against mine and her head against my shoulder so Rue can tug her jacket off. I wait until the jacket has been smoothed out on the ground as a makeshift blanket before I gently lay her back down, my hands lingering on the back of her head and the middle of her back.

I really, really hope she lets me do this again someday... when she's conscious for it.

Sighing, I climb out from under the ledge, collecting Katniss' backpack and moving off a ways to inspect the contents. I discover rope, matches, a blanket, what looks and smells like half a roast rabbit, a bottle of water that's nearly empty and – wonder of wonders – water purifying solution. There are even some saltine crackers and a few strips of jerky. No medicine, though. And while the rabbit meat is a bit greasy, I know it's not a good idea to use animal fat on a burn that is more raw, mangled skin than unbroken, blistered flesh.

"Rue? Is she okay?"

"Um… one more sting on her knee. I think that's all."

"How does the burn on her leg look to you?"

"Bad."

"Okay." I wonder why Haymitch hasn't sent her anything for it yet. I can't believe that Katniss doesn't have sponsors. I consider the man's sharp gaze and analytical mind. He must have known she'd had a plan to help me, that I would help her in return. Maybe he thinks that a baker's son would know a thing or two about treating burns.

I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he's somewhat sober and waiting for a sign.

I turn my face up toward the forest canopy. "Hey, Haymitch. Katniss is gonna need something for that burn. There's nothing I can do for that."

Crouching on the forest floor, listening to the sounds of skin and fabric brushing against each other, trying not to imagine Katniss in various states of undress, I wait. I also try not to think of everyone in Panem seeing Katniss like this. She would hate it. Absolutely.

"Hey, Rue?"

"Yeah?"

My pause is brief before I tell her, "Uh, when Katniss comes to, don't tell her about this."

A beat of confused silence follows. I wave my hand vaguely in her direction. "The… undressing stuff."

"Is that a District Twelve thing?" She sounds both amused and curious.

I snort, running my grubby fingers through my sweat-and-dirt-crusted bangs. God, I feel nasty. My jaw and cheeks are still unnaturally smooth, though. My prep team had said it would last for about a month. Which seems kind of excessive given that the Games rarely last a full two weeks and only a couple of tributes are meant to make it that long for the final showdown.

"Nope," I answer. "It's not a District Twelve thing." God knows my brothers and I have never given a damn about who sees us bare-assed. "I just can't imagine Katniss would thank us for it. She's… a really strong person."

"There are different kinds of strength," Rue counters in a quiet but wise tone that makes me blink in reaction. "Okay. She's dressed. You can come back around now."

Sighing, I do so. "Thanks, Rue."

She sits back, wrapping her arms around her legs as I nudge a hand beneath Katniss' head, lifting her up so I can dribble a bit of water between her lips. When she swallows, I repeat the process, using up the rest of the water. I use the sleeve of my undershirt to wipe away the escaped droplets and dab at the grime on her forehead. When I've finished buttoning up her jacket and arranging her braid so that it lies beside rather than under her, I find Rue smiling at me.

"What?" I whisper, keeping my voice low even though Katniss is out cold.

"You really love her."

There's no point in denying it now. Katniss can't hear me, but lots of potential sponsors can. "I really do."

"Why?" she dares to ask and I can only grin at her blatant curiosity.

I tell her the truth, "Actually, Rue, I'm still working on that part." It's the sort of thing I think I could contemplate for years and never be completely satisfied with the answer. It's the sort of thing I'd need a lifetime to fully illuminate.

The smile I give Katniss feels softer than any of the others I've dared to show her. Maybe I can't explain exactly what it is about Katniss Everdeen that makes me love her more than anything – and even if I could sum it up in a few well-chosen words, I wouldn't share them with all of Panem – but just because I can't describe it doesn't make it any less real.

Just then, a soft chime floats through the air on the breeze.

It's a parachute.

For Katniss.

* * *

**Notes:**

In this 'verse, Katniss already has a plan to use the track jackers against the Careers before the Gamemakers start the fire. The smoke actually works in her favor and brings everything together. (I love me some strategy-smart!Katniss. I think she had great potential to come up with plans like this in the canon, but was lacking motivation, maybe? Anyway, she gets her awesome on here.)

I love comments and feedback so don't be shy!

Or come visit me on Tumblr (manniness) - I post previews of upcoming C&S goodness on Sundays (for "six sentence sunday") and reblog-fangirl-squee myself silly. So, at least come by for the eyecandy. (^_~)

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Camp":**

"Katniss doesn't need a knife to make me regret crawling under her blanket."

Rue's giggles echo like wind chimes in the darkening forest. "Which is why I can trust you to behave yourself."


	12. The Camp

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "Flawed Design" by Stabilo

* * *

**The Camp**

* * *

I keep waiting for the sound of the cannon. If the Careers are as incapacitated as Katniss from the tracker jacker stings, then I'd expect Bobry to make quick work of slicing their throats. Unless, of course, Bobry is like me.

Or maybe the Careers, being from richer districts, have access to better medicine. It's this possibility that makes me listen very, very carefully as I check the snare line. I find a squirrel and a rabbit this afternoon, and use the wire in my pack to tie them to my belt loops before resetting the traps. On my way back, I stop to try my hand at a constructing a few snares of my own. They look pretty pathetic compared with Katniss', but since the Careers know where those are, we'd be better off finding a new hunting ground.

Rue's face lights up when I return to camp with my furry little friends.

"I hope that look means you know how to clean and skin these," I tell her, "because I've only done it a couple of times and I'm not very good at it."

"You handle the fire. I'll take care of dinner."

"Deal."

I hand Rue Katniss' knife. She works slowly but methodically and I decide I have enough time to try for a fire without matches. By the time she has the carcasses spitted and ready for roasting, I've managed a flame.

"Why didn't you ask for a match? I have some."

I smile. Rue doesn't talk much, but this gesture seems friendlier than a whole conversation. "What's the fun in that?" I tease.

"You think you need the practice?" She arches her brows knowingly and nods in Katniss' direction.

Katniss, who hasn't stirred all day. I have to keep stopping in the middle of whatever I'm doing so I can stare at her until I'm sure the subtle rise and fall of her chest isn't a product of my hopeful imagination.

"Maybe she's not impressed by fire starting," Rue speculates with a twinkle in her dark eyes.

I scrape my scattered thoughts together and scoff. "Who doesn't appreciate a little sleight of hand?" I scoop up a pebble from the forest floor, roll it over my knuckles, turn my fist over… and wave my fingers. The stone has vanished. Of course, I know exactly where it is. It's an old trick that Baxter used to really get off on confounding me with back when I was five or six years old… until Duff had taken pity on me and taught me the secret of it.

Rue's never seen it before, though, if her wide eyes are any indication. "Do that again!"

Rather than reveal the location of the previous pebble, I pick up another one. Roll… twist… open palm.

"What's the trick?" she wants to know, inching closer.

I pick up a third pebble and offer it to her. "You try it for a bit. You've got an hour to impress me."

She applies herself to discovering the trick behind the magic and I start gathering the supplies I'll need for camouflaging Katniss. I'm very aware of the fact that the more time that goes by, the greater our chances of being discovered here. I pull the thermal blanket from Katniss' orange backpack and tuck it under my arm. It'll be getting dark and cold soon. I press the back of my hand to her forehead. No fever. Excellent.

The burn on her thigh isn't quite as disgusting as it had been a few hours ago. I gently dab another layer of slimy ointment on it through the tear in her trousers before tucking the blanket around her. With that taken care of, I turn my attention to my specialty: camouflage.

As I was checking the snares today, I'd been thinking about how to make sure Katniss remains undiscovered. In the end, I'd decided it was impractical to haul mud up here to decorate her blanket. Maybe her backpack, but I could take that down to the river bank with me tomorrow. As for Katniss herself, I settle for harvesting vines here and there, trying to disturb the surrounding vegetation as little as possible. Then I start collecting leaves and other windfall.

I finish up just as Rue declares the squirrel ready to eat and the pebble problem impossible to crack. After dinner, I share the secret and she giggles when she manages to make the pebble roll stealthily down into her sleeve.

"My little brother will love this," she observes.

"As a little brother myself, I can guarantee he will." I don't say that she'll be able to teach it to him when she gets home. I just can't think about that.

I stand up and head back over to the ledge to finish weaving some protective netting over the front of the depression. I sprinkle the dead leaves and assorted twigs on top of it and, when I'm done, it looks like the unbroken slope of a hill. You'd never know there was someone hidden inside.

Rue produces the sleeping bag I'd left by the river and I tell her to keep it. "Do you need some rope for tying yourself to the tree branch?"

She doesn't, but she wonders, "Where will you sleep?"

That is a very good question. I take my time stamping out and covering up the remains of our campfire, weighing my options.

Before I can come to a decision, Rue rolls her eyes. "Just crawl under the blanket with Katniss."

I jerk back defensively, giving her look that's probably comical.

She reasons, "If you've got the only knife—" Which I do. "—then there's nothing to worry about." Her playful urging makes me blush for – what is it now? – the third time today? Hell.

"Katniss doesn't need a knife to make me regret crawling under her blanket."

Rue's giggles echo like wind chimes in the darkening forest. "Which is why I can trust you to behave yourself."

I laugh. This little girl is something else.

"Go on." She nods toward the façade I'd carefully constructed. "She might get cold lying on the ground like that." And, of course, that is probably the only thing that could get me to snuggle up with Katniss tonight. I could guard her from outside the blind just fine. But if she were cold…

Damn it.

I sigh. Rue stifles another round of giggles, but we both know she's made her point.

It only takes a moment to wiggle through the small gap I'd left between the fake hillside and the tree roots, but it takes considerably longer for me to work up the nerve to lie down next to her. I hesitate, crouched at her feet, putting it off until the anthem plays and I confirm today's deaths: Glimmer and the girl from Four.

When I finally give in and press myself into the narrow space between her arm and the earthen and root-lined wall, I notice how warm she is. Yet she's so still. I have to hover my hand over her nose to reassure myself that she's still breathing.

"Hey," I tell her, speaking in a low whisper, "I missed you today."

She doesn't answer, but that's all right. If she were awake, I doubt she'd have an answer for that kind of sappy remark anyway.

"We saved you some rabbit from dinner."

I reach for her hand.

"Your snares are really good."

Silence.

"You'd better wake up tomorrow."

I've never felt so utterly alone.

"I'm with you," I breathe. Those three words serve as a prayer since they are the last thing I say before I fall asleep.

Even before I open my eyes the next morning, I've remembered where I am and to whom the warmth radiating all down my front belongs. For a moment, I imagine looking into her grey eyes. My first sight upon waking. Would she be frowning? Would she have questions? Or would I see _that look_ again? That warmth. That I'm-glad-you're-here look. That look I'd sketched and brought into the Games with me.

Holding my breath, I open my eyes.

She's still asleep and, as far as I can tell, she hadn't even twitched during the night, but she's still breathing easily.

It's easier to sit up after the wave of relief washes through me. I hesitate at her feet again. It's definitely morning now – without a beam of sunlight smacking me in the face at dawn, I'd overslept – and there's just enough light under here for me to see. My hands reach for the inner pocket of my jacket and I nudge the sheet of paper out from between the folds of fabric. I'm tempted to open it, but I know that all of Panem will see it. My fingers play with the edges of the paper.

I glance at Katniss. We have food and water. Her face is relaxed in slumber. I lift the edge of the blanket enough to check her leg. It looks almost completely better now. She's okay. She's fine. She doesn't need any sponsors at this exact moment. She has Rue and she has me. We'll look after her until she finds her way back to us, which shouldn't be long now. With a single, decisive nod, I tuck the unopened sketch back into my pocket, keeping it in reserve, holding onto it for when Katniss really needs the help it could bring.

"Good morning," I tell Rue when I duck back outside.

She smiles and I pretend I don't hear the teasing note in her voice when she asks if I slept well. I will not start the day by turning bright red. No way.

We finish the rest of the soda bread from my nearly-empty pack. Rue contributes some berries that I don't remember seeing at the Training Center's edible plants station.

"Are these really okay to eat?"

"Sure." She pops a few in her mouth. "We have them in Eleven."

I try one. It's a little sour, but beneath that it's sweet and it feels like it's been ages since I've had anything fresh and fruity. I set aside some for Katniss, just in case she wakes up soon.

Rue offers me the water bottle I'd found in Katniss' backpack. It's mostly full now and I gulp down almost half of it gratefully. "You've had a busy morning," I tell her. "Picking berries and hauling water. Thanks."

She gives me an easy shrug. "You looked tired."

"Yeah. Camping with the Careers wasn't as relaxing as you'd think."

Now that I look back on it, I'm pretty sure they'd never offered me a tent because they'd known I wouldn't rest well sleeping under the blazing sun. Hell, it was probably a tried-and-true tactic to keep their least valuable allies exhausted and off-balance. And then of course, there was the ever-present threat of death looming overhead.

No wonder I'd slept like a rock last night.

Rue gives me an irritable look. "Why'd you join up with them, then?"

I huff out a deep breath, dangling my hands between my knees and staring blankly out into the woods as I roll three uneaten berries between my fingers. "It wasn't my intention. But I wanted to help Katniss and, with her training score, I knew they'd be after her." The Careers had probably been hoping to eliminate her early on in the Games before accidents and fatigue took their toll on the members of their alliance. "They caught up to me before I could meet up with her in the woods. You could say that I was lucky because they'd just killed another tribute so they were in a pretty good mood."

I contemplate my hands and confess, "If I'd had a weapon – something other than river rocks – I probably would have tried to fight them. Pretty sure that would've gotten me killed. I guess, in the end, it worked out okay." A heavy sigh pushes its way up from my gut where my anxiety and terror still simmer. "I still wish she hadn't cut that nest down." I look over my shoulder at Katniss again, checking on her and reassuring myself at the same time.

When I shift back around, Rue is staring at me. "You actually lied your way into their group?"

Well, when you put it that way... "Yup."

"Wow."

My laughter is harsh. "Not wow. Definitely not wow. The stuff I said to convince them that I'd help them find her and kill her…" I pay close attention to the berries left in my hand, memorizing the texture and hue of their thick skin. I mumble, "If I could unsay it, I would."

"But they believed you, and they decided to trust you. Even though you're from District Twelve."

I know what she means. Tributes from the outer districts are generally tossed into the arena on the understanding that the Careers need people to kill. Spearing, knifing, or strangling us is practically a reflex for them. Somehow I'd convinced them that I was useful but not an immediate threat. Had it been my attempt at charm or my fumbling logic? Both?

"Your training score should have been higher," Rue concludes.

If they'd counted subterfuge and lying among the skills they measured, maybe it would have been. I seem to be a lot better at it than I'd expected I would be. But now that I think about it, no one had ever questioned my explanations for whatever injury I'd shown up with at school. I'd always chalked it up to having two older brothers I could blame and that was why my classmates and teachers had always taken my explanations at face value. The only person I'd ever really worried about convincing had been my mother, and I'd figured out the best combination of tone, expression, and words ages ago. They didn't always work, of course. Maybe that's why I've been underestimating my efforts recently.

Yet another unanticipated but completely transferrable skill: I can lie.

I can't see Katniss congratulating me on that one, though.

Unsettled, I urge Rue to take some more water. Then I pull aside some of the camouflage over Katniss so I can lift her up and tip one sip after another into her mouth. She shifts a bit and the frown I know so well makes a brief appearance, but she doesn't wake. I finish off the water myself, tuck the purifying solution in my jacket pocket, and announce my intent to head down to the river for a refill.

I take Katniss' backpack with me so I can work on camouflaging it for her.

The walk stretches and warms my muscles, which ache from spending an entire night and several hours of morning being crammed up against the cold, lumpy earth, but the exercise doesn't ease my mind.

_I'm a liar._

How had I not noticed this before?

God how I wish Katniss were awake. I really, really need a friend right now and I remember how she'd defended me the night after we'd arrived in the Capitol:

_"Peeta's strong."_

_"Your mother shouldn't have said that to you."_

I'm beginning to see that there are a lot of things my mother shouldn't have done, things that I'd let her do, things that I'd accepted as normal when they obviously hadn't been then and certainly aren't now.

I crouch down at the river's edge and dip the water bottle below the surface. While it fills, I scoop some mud out from the damp bank and begin smearing it over the pack.

Out of nowhere, I remember a muddy spring day about three years ago, a teasing sort of argument with Baxter out by the pig pen, a playful shove, a broken fence slat. I remember untreated splinters in my hands from trying to tie the crumbling wood together with twine. I remember my mother coming out to inspect my progress.

"You stupid little beast! Give me one good reason not to beat you!"

"I'll fix it." What had I done wrong? The railing was okay now, wasn't it? Besides, Baxter had been the one to shove _me _into it. The broken rail was his fault. Not that my mother cared whose fault it was. It was always my fault.

"That won't hold the pigs in!"

She was right. She was right and I was doomed. The words came faster than I could think them up: "They won't come out before slops. It's too cold. I'll go to the lumberyard right now and have it all done by the end of dinner. I promise!"

"See that you do. And do it right."

She moved so abruptly that I braced myself for a blow. If we'd been inside, she might have hit me. In my panic, I'd forgotten that she was always careful not to punish me out of doors. She stomped back inside, leaving me gasping in the wake of the temporary reprieve.

Not two minutes later, my father slipped me the money I'd need and I remember his words – "That fence was rotting, anyway, Peet. Just… just hurry now. There's a good boy." – and I sprinted to the lumberyard.

Only to discover that they'd already closed for the day.

But my fear of failure had been greater than any shame I would feel at disturbing a stranger at his home, so I'd screwed up my courage and gone around to the Sherwoods' house. They owned the yard and I'd had to interrupt their dinner in order to ask for a new fence slat. Old man Sherwood had kindly and promptly sold one to me and then pressed a bacon sandwich and a bruised apple into my dirty hands. I'd been so thankful that I hadn't even stopped to wonder how he'd guessed that I'd missed dinner at my house. Maybe I'd looked pale. Or frantic. I had certainly been at the end of my proverbial rope that day.

In the end, I'd fixed the fence just in time for the dinner slops to be poured into the trough for the jostling and expectant pigs. My mother had glanced at the new rail, sniffed, and barked at me to get cleaned up.

I'd washed up. I'd eaten the cold, meager remains of the evening meal. I'd gone to bed. The growling of my belly should have woken me up in the middle of the night, but thanks to the food Mr. Sherwood had given me, I'd slept soundly until morning. And I'd also managed to avoid a beating, somehow.

My childhood was crowded to bursting with similar close calls. I'd always chalked it up to luck because every time I started to feel a twinge of confidence in my ability to talk myself out of trouble, I'd fail and find myself spending a week at school squinting at the blackboard through a black eye that just wouldn't stop watering.

I lean back against a boulder and take a moment to soak up the momentary peace of the forest. I can understand why Katniss' favorite color is green. It's soothing out here and if I can't have Katniss next to me – if I can't reach for her hand – at least I can have this. Maybe I would have told her about that day if she were here. Maybe then she'd finally understand why I don't have a problem with doing favors for people, why it's important to give people hope whenever you can, no matter who they are and especially if they can't pay you back.

I add the finishing touches to the backpack, which now looks spectacularly mucky. There's no trace of orange in sight. The required number of iodine drops go into the water bottle and I begin the trek back.

My heart is heavy, but my head feels clearer, like I've sorted something out. There's no denying that I'm a pretty good liar. The right combination of words, charm, humility, and logic had saved my life that first night in the arena, and I would use that skill again to save Katniss. In a heartbeat. I just have to be sure that I don't take it too far. I have to be honest with her, like I promised I would. In the arena, in this constantly shifting landscape of half-truths and implications, _that_ is non-negotiable.

"What's wrong?" Rue asks when I wander into camp without bothering to call out a greeting.

I shake my head. I don't want to talk about it with anyone other than Katniss. "Is she awake yet?"

"She came to for a bit," Rue tells me and my heartbeat picks up speed, "but I don't think she really woke up."

"Oh." God, could I possibly sound any more pathetic? Maybe._ Put your back into it, Peet. Go for full-blown wretched. You know you want to._

"She ate some berries and a cracker."

"That's good."

I trudge over to Katniss and fiddle with the netting for something to do.

Aw, who the hell am I trying to kid? I'm hoping she'll stir. I need her to open her eyes and look at me. I need to not be alone. I need her because I think she could understand the kind of desperation I've known, the kind of fear that makes you question yourself, the kind of fear that makes you draw into yourself because there's nothing and no one to reach out to.

I squat down and brush back the strands of soft, dark hair that are stuck to her skin. Rue must have been telling the truth about her waking up because Katniss' braid is all bunched up under her right shoulder. I carefully tug it free.

"Peeta? Everything all right?"

I don't know how to answer the question Rue is almost-nearly-maybe asking. "I'm…" _not okay._ "…going to check the snares."

The last thing I need is to be alone right now, but I hadn't been able to think of anything else to say. I leave the knife with Katniss, knowing that it'll make the job of untangling snared game harder, but I don't _need_ it and Katniss might. It's hers, anyway.

"I'll be back before sunset," I promise Rue.

She nods. "Be careful."

She looks so small and serious that I have to smile. "You can bet on it."

I try not to think about anything other than the sounds of the forest as I take a circuitous route back to the snare line. Like yesterday, I avoid the tracker jacker tree even though the spear I'd left behind might still be there. In fact, someone might be watching, waiting, hoping for either Katniss or myself to come back for it. I steer clear of temptation and locate the snares I'd set the day before. They're all empty. I'd suspected they would be. I don't have any skill at trapping.

Which means I have to try Katniss'. The ones that the Careers know about.

I have to be _very_ careful.

I walk as slowly and as quietly as I can, keeping close to cover whenever possible. I sense nothing in the forest. The birds continue chirping. The leaves rustle with their movements. I don't tell myself that I'm safe here, but I have no good reason to turn back. There's no evidence that I'm being watched.

I creep forward.

"Well, if it isn't Lover Boy."

I freeze. Shit. "Cato. How's it going?"

"Not too bad," he replies. I hear him walking up behind me. My first inclination is to turn and face him, confront my death. I will not be a coward.

But I'd made a promise to Katniss, and I owe it to her to stay alive if I can. And if I run, my path will take me _away_ from Cato. I scan the woods, looking for what I don't know. Hope, maybe. A miracle, most likely.

"Looks like you've been doing okay, yourself," he observes. "No trouble with the tracker jackers?"

I risk a glance over my shoulder at him. He's not alone. Marvel is with him and he's armed with a spear. "Everyone had trouble with those damn things," I answer smoothly.

Cato jerks his chin at me and I count three scabbed-over stings on his neck. "Then show us. Where'd they get you?"

"On my ass, if you must know," I grit out, "and I'd rather not flash all of Panem even if you're keen on seeing it."

Marvel laughs.

I wait for Cato to run me through. He still has that damn stupid sword.

Instead of gutting me, he says, "You know what I think?"

I'm very glad I don't know what he thinks. His mind is not a place I'd like to visit or contemplate. Ever.

He doesn't wait for me to answer. "I don't think you got stung at all. I think she warned you. I think you're working together. I think you have been this whole time."

Can I lie my way out of this? Maybe not. But misdirect? Maybe I've got a shot at that. "If that's true, then you're in a world of trouble right now."

I glance meaningfully at our surroundings, hinting that Katniss is out there, watching this unfold and waiting for her chance.

Cato smirks. "So is she. _If _she's out here."

Because Clove is out here, too, clutching her knives, waiting for Katniss to step into her line of sight.

A long moment passes and I can't think of a single thing to say. Damn it. This is my fault. Why had I let Rue's comment rattle me? Why had I set out on my own without making sure I had my shit together?

_Idiot._

Finally, I just can't take the silence anymore. I blurt, "Then what's the hold up? Or haven't you decided who gets the pleasure of killing me yet? I'll wait if you guys need to arm wrestle for it."

I think it's a generous offer. Cato turns me down.

"Actually, I've got a better idea," he muses. And, if the smirk on his face is anything to go by, I'm not going to like it. At all.

* * *

**Notes:**

Right, so none of this happened in the book or movie. This is Manny's Director's Cut. Hah!

Reviews make my day. SRSLY. Feed an author - leave a comment.

Come visit me on Tumblr (manniness) - I've been matching scenes from the movie up with C&S prose and generally fangirling myself into next week. Stop by and say hi!

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Pyramid" (Katniss POV):**

I can see my father trekking toward the mines, surrounded by men who are about to die. Gale's father is there – he must be – but every man looks the same. Each man is my father and yet not my father. Someone's father. They all die in the mines sooner or later.

The elevator pulls them down. The dust cloud of coal and death billows out, plows through the Seam, destroys homes and hopes. My mother sits at the kitchen table. Prim is hungry. This is our fate. Our mothers fade away and children starve. This is what the Capitol does.


	13. The Pyramid (Katniss POV)

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "Closing In" by Imogene Heap

* * *

**The Pyramid (Katniss POV)**

* * *

I can see my father trekking toward the mines, surrounded by men who are about to die. Gale's father is there – he must be – but every man looks the same. Each man is my father and yet not my father. Someone's father. They all die in the mines sooner or later.

The elevator pulls them down. The dust cloud of coal and death billows out, plows through the Seam, destroys homes and hopes. My mother sits at the kitchen table. Prim is hungry. This is our fate. Our mothers fade away and children starve. This is what the Capitol does.

I scream, but no one hears me. My voice cannot wake my mother. Her eyes remain distant even as she slowly raises a hand to my cheek. My knees ache from pressing into the cracked linoleum of the floor. For a moment, I feel warmth against my face and I forget the pain… but it's not my mother's hand. It's too large, too strong, too warm.

"Katniss," a boy's – man's? – voice murmurs tenderly. "I've got you, Katniss. I've got you."

My eyes fly open and I hear the sound of his name pushing past my lips. "Peeta!"

The sound is little more than a gasp, but it is enough to confuse me. Where is he? What happened? How did I get here? Where is _here?_

I sit up slowly, absorbing what I can see of the forest. I'm sheltered under a natural shelf, between roots and beneath the canopy of trees. The remains of a blind are draped over the depression and I see what must be my backpack near my feet. It's been camouflaged. Beside it rests a bow and quiver of arrows.

Bow and arrows.

I don't even remember picking them up. I don't remember running. I don't remember arriving here. I don't remember camouflaging my pack.

What happened?

I remember cutting through the bough that held the tracker jacker nest. I remember the unbelievable, burning pain of sting after sting after sting. I remember clawing my way down the tree even as my vision had started to swim sideways and vibrate. I remember a voice calling my name.

_"Katniss! I've got you!"_

Peeta.

_Where is he?_

I roll up onto my elbow and the motion informs me that it has been a very, very long time since I've relieved myself. I crawl out of the blind, lean up against a nearby tree, and take care of that. It hurts after holding it in for so long, the muscles have locked in place and cramped hard. I don't even care that all of Panem could be watching, that _Peeta _could be watching. I'll care later.

Sorting myself out and straightening up takes another few minutes. I reach back beneath the ledge and grab my grungy backpack. My water bottle is still inside and I take a draw from it before I remember that it had been nearly empty the last time I'd checked.

What is going on here?

I run a hand over my jacket, feeling the mockingjay pin hidden beneath the outer shell, and I brush my fingers over my pants. They catch on a tear and I remember the pain. The burn from the fireball courtesy of the Gamemakers. I bend my knee to investigate the wound. It's gone. There's only perfect skin beneath the hole in my pants. Recalling the stings I'd received, I check my hands carefully and spot a greenish stain on my scabbed skin. Venom? But why would it have drawn itself out of my bloodstream?

Okay, now I'm starting to get irritated, which clashes with the wave of pure gratitude I feel at being more or less pain-free… which just makes my head ache.

I don't like surprises.

"Okay, _think,"_ I mutter to myself. There must be an explanation for this. Something that doesn't involve the phrase "miraculous intervention." I hesitate to let myself think Peeta did all this. But if he had, he'd still be here, wouldn't he?

_What is going on?_

That's when a slight movement catches my gaze. I look up, past a badly disguised fire ring, and glimpse a small, dark head ducking behind a tree. I stand, but I don't go for my arrows. It takes me a moment before I can match an identity to the figure.

"Rue?"

Slowly, she peeps out at me.

"It's okay. I won't hurt you."

Amazingly enough, that's all she needs to hear. She comes out from hiding and offers me half a rabbit and some berries.

"What are these?" I ask, thinking I recognize the fruit, and if they're what I think they are… I wonder why Rue would try and kill me now when she'd certainly had ample opportunity before this.

"Timber berries," Rue tells me, picking one up from my hand and popping it in her mouth to prove that it's safe to eat.

I exhale in relief. For a moment, I'd thought she'd given me a handful of nightlock. I share my water with her. "How did I get here?" I ask her. "Did you hide me?"

She follows my nod toward the indentation beneath the tree roots and shakes her head. "No, that was Peeta."

_Peeta._ He's alive. He's fine. I glance at my backpack, finally letting myself admit that I recognize the camouflage pattern. He'd worn it himself the day of our private sessions with the Gamemakers. I smile at the memory. I smile at the stupid, mud-caked backpack and I know that I hadn't made a mistake in trusting Peeta. He really had helped me.

But he's not here.

Before I can ask, Rue rushes onward, "He carried you all the way from the tracker jacker tree. He's really strong."

"I know," I reply stupidly. And then her words cycle back around and I frown. "From the tracker jacker tree?" I scan the area again, making more of an effort to get my bearings. "Isn't that something like a forty-minute walk from here?"

"Try more like an hour and then some," she replies with exasperation. "Peeta was being _super_ careful with you."

This doesn't surprise me, but it does make my heart beat a little faster. "Where is he?" I finally manage to ask.

Rue ducks her head down. "He went to check the snare line. He said he'd be back before sunset."

I glance toward the west. He should be back soon according to the rosy light and lengthening shadows.

"He wasn't gone this long yesterday," Rue tells me.

I make an effort to swallow the bite of meat I'd taken. "But there hasn't been a cannon, right?"

She shakes her head. "Yesterday there were two, for the girls from Two and Four."

"Tracker jackers?"

"Yeah."

I feel slightly ill suddenly. "Have you eaten yet this afternoon?" I ask her abruptly. When she hesitates, I tear off a sizable portion of rabbit and press it into her hands. "Here. I'll make myself sick if I try and eat it all."

Rue smiles. "Peeta's a much better liar than you are."

My brows twitch. I suppose Peeta is a pretty good liar, but how would Rue know that? "Did Peeta lie to you?"

"No. To the Careers."

"Oh. I know."

"You trust him a lot."

I can tell she's not really surprised by this. I sigh. "He saved my life… a long time ago."

Rue prompts me with a look.

I don't have any intention of telling the whole stupid country about how pathetic I'd been, how broken and lost my mother still is, how long and how hard I'd tried to resent Peeta for helping me, how much I hate owing people favors, how only someone with a heart of stone could ever really resist Peeta's goodness.

I counter with, "You trust him, too."

"He gave me food and told me where I could find a sleeping bag."

Of course he did. Because he's Peeta and nothing – not even the arena – will ever change that about him. He'll risk his life to help people just because he—

I stiffen. "You said Peeta went to check the snares? _My_ snares?"

"Yeah," she confirms and I see my own fear reflected in her eyes. Fear, because if I'm up and around after my brush with the tracker jackers, then so are the Careers and they know where I'd set those snares. Peeta had shown them where they are. And he's gone back to check them.

_Damn you, Peeta! What the hell were you thinking? We wouldn't have starved overnight!_

I swivel around to confirm the position of the sun again although I know it'll be lower than I want it to be. The sun is setting and Peeta still hasn't come back. I am furious and frustrated and afraid beyond measure. If he doesn't come back tonight… If he doesn't come back…

_I don't know what I'll do._

The thought rattles me hard, slaps me awake.

I'm being stupid. I know what I'll do. I'll go after him.

Turning back to Rue, I ask her about Cato and the others. She tells me about their camp, about the pyramid of supplies, about the land mines.

Land mines. Great.

Rue and I drag the sleeping bag up into a tree with the rest of our supplies. We bed down and I tie us to the branch. Rue tells me how Peeta asked our mentor to send me the medicine for my leg, and how he taught her a magic trick, how he looked kind of sad after she'd told him what a great liar he must be.

"It's my fault," she whispers as we wait for the anthem to play. "I shouldn't have said that. He wouldn't talk much afterwards and then he just left…"

"It's okay," I tell her. "He's okay. He's fine. Tomorrow morning, I'll track him and we'll bring him back."

"Okay." Rue quiets, settles down against me. "So, all that's really true," she queries on a breath, "about you and him?"

When I draw in a shaky breath, she looks up at me. Even in the darkness, I can see the hope in her face. How she can hope at a time like this, in this hell, I have no idea. "Peeta and I…" I begin, but I just don't have words for what we are. We are, simply, Peeta-and-I. Whatever that is.

Rue's small hand reaches for mine and squeezes my fingers hard. "It's gonna be okay. We'll find him tomorrow."

"Okay," I answer. Because that is the only answer. I haveto find Peeta.

That night, the sky stays empty, but every time I close my eyes, all I see is the arena photograph of Peeta in his heat reflective jacket, his jaw strong and eyes flickering with kindness, joy, determination. I close my eyes and I see the Fallen: District Twelve.

I hold onto Rue as she sleeps, but I give up on rest. I won't rest until I lay eyes Peeta again, until I'm sure he's all right.

Rue wakes up at dawn and we share some more berries and meat. "Come on," I say, untying us from the tree limb. "I'll hunt on the way."

She doesn't protest. I can see from her drawn expression that she's just as worried about Peeta as I am.

Following his trail is easy; staying focused long enough to bring down game along the way is not. I manage to shoot only one bird. A groosling, according to Rue. It's better than nothing, I guess. She offers to carry it and I'm happy to let her. The fewer obstacles I have on me, the better.

We enter my old hunting grounds and Rue takes to the trees as I pad soundlessly through the forest. I expect an attack, an ambush. I expect to find Peeta unconscious, injured, sprawled in the shadow of a tree.

His trail leads to a newly-tread path through the brush that heads right to the Cornucopia and the Careers' camp.

I pause and take a moment to think. Why would Peeta go back there? We don't need supplies, water, food, or weapons. The Careers know that he wasn't all that good at tracking me. By now, they probably suspect that he was actively working against them the entire time. Which means he hadn't gone back to their camp willingly.

But why would they just take him? Why not kill him outright? Does Cato think Peeta will suddenly have a change of heart? That makes no sense. Peeta certainly hadn't beaten a path back to the clearing and his supposed allies after I'd dropped that tracker jacker nest. That in and of itself looks pretty guilty. Unless Peeta has managed to convince the Careers that he'd been suffering from tracker jacker stings in the woods for the last two days?

When I call Rue down and ask her if Peeta had gotten stung the day before yesterday, she shoots down my hopes with two words: "He didn't."

Of course not. He'd gotten me the bow and arrows. He'd carried me through the forest, built a blind over my hiding place, asked Haymitch for medicine for my leg, camouflaged my backpack, and refilled the water bottle at the river. There's no possible way he could have done all that if he'd been stung.

Taking a deep breath, I clear my mind of the worry that makes my stomach acid churn and bubble and froth. I need to be calm. That's the only way I'll be of any use to Peeta.

"There's a tree with a clear view of the clearing," Rue offers.

"Show me."

I tuck my camouflaged backpack into the thick brush at the base of the tree Rue points out. Then I begin to climb. I force myself to go slowly because I cannot afford to be seen. If I'm seen, I must shoot. If I shoot, I'll lose the element of surprise and – if Peeta is here – maybe risk his life. So I climb carefully, pulling myself up into a fork that is just barely strong enough to hold me. It gives me an unobstructed view of everything.

I spot the pyramid first. Then the broken ground where they'd dug up the land mines. The earth around the pyramid is lumpy and it looks like Rue is right: they've reburied the explosives around the food.

Hah. Perfect. The very strength of the system is its weakness. In order to destroy the supplies, all I have to do is cause a chain reaction, forcing all of the bombs to go off. There's a bag of something that could be apples suspended from a container near the top. If I could send an arrow through the net and release the contents, that would probably do it. I'm too far away to attempt a shot like that up here, and my perch is hardly stable. I'll have to be on the ground.

I recall seeing just one of those land mines explode during the countdown a few years ago. The dust cloud had completely filled the screen and the sound had been deafening even though I'd been witnessing it through a broadcast. A series of those bombs going off is going to be _huge._

Plan set, I continue my survey, my mouth drying out more and more with every passing second that I _don't _see Peeta. I count three tents set up in a camp formation. There's one person – the boy from Three – out in the open. He slumps wearily on a bedroll under the clear, blue sky. The only other thing of note in the meadow is a single, stunted tree situated between the pyramid and the tents.

Tied to the base of that tree, is Peeta.

* * *

**Notes:**

OK, so. Aside from the groosling and berries and Katniss/Rue bonding moment... we're in Divergence-From-Canon-Land.

Thank you SO MUCH, my reviewers - you are few but awesome. You've stuck with this story for weeks and I really appreciate hearing from you guys. I really, really do. And I hope I get to meet more awesome people! Don't be shy, lurkers!

Goodies and previews of upcoming posts are over on my Tumblr - manniness.

**Snippet of what's to come next in "The Archer":**

Marvel grins at me. "Your girl-on-fire is one cold bitch, Twelve."

And all of Panem thinks I'm a moron for falling in love with her. That just goes to show how little they know and how much they underestimate her.


	14. The Archer

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "Bullet from a Gun" by The Script

* * *

**The Archer**

* * *

This sucks.

There's really not much else you can say about being tied to a tree, gagged, and left all day in the hot sun with no food or water. My shoulders ache from having my arms tied behind my back and my spine feels bruised from spending hours pressed against the tree trunk. I lost the feeling in my hands sometime last night after I'd scratched them up on the rough bark as I'd fought for a bit of give in the nylon cord. Pointless though the endeavor had been, at least it'd distracted me from the fact that there'd been something like a 99% chance that I was going to die of exposure.

I can't believe I was dumb enough to go back and check those snares. I should have tried to figure out how to flip some fish out of the river. But I hadn't thought of that. No, instead I'd been so busy with my pity party that I'd wandered right into Cato's trap. Now I'm the bait.

_Don't take it, Katniss. Just forget about me._

I don't hope for rescue. I dread it. I can just imagine what Katniss will think when she finds out I'm here, and I'm pretty sure she'll check at some point, especially since I'd promised Rue I'd be careful and then I hadn't come back. Katniss will see me here in my predicament and then she'll think of her arrows and how it would be so easy to take out Cato, Clove, and Marvel. She could do it from a treetop, even, out of reach from Marvel's spear and Clove's knife.

I hope she doesn't, but it's not like I've given her much of a choice.

If Haymitch were here, he'd kill me. I'd told him I would give him something to work with, and I give him this: a Goddamn mess. At the end of which, I'll probably be dead and Katniss will have killed at least three more people. That's the last thing I want her to have to live with.

Tears sting and burn my eyes. I do what little I can to fight them. Taking deep breaths doesn't help; they just make me choke on the fabric in my mouth. Smacking my head against the tree doesn't do anything except make me look even more weak and pathetic to the rest of Panem. Oh, God. My family is seeing this. Gale Hawthorne is seeing this.

Thank God I won't have to live with the humiliation for long. I'm pretty sure that one more night spent tied up here will do me in, anyway.

I gauge the time by the position of the sun. There's maybe an hour before sunset. I lean my head back against the tree and stretch my legs out in front of me… and I wait. I wait for death; I wait for the moment when Katniss kills kids that she never should've been forced to hurt in the first place; I wait for a nightmare to unfold: Katniss running across the field toward me and getting herself blown up.

There's only one thing that I _can_ do besides wait. I tuck my chin down and try to loosen the cloth over my mouth by rubbing it against my shoulder. I've been trying this on and off all last night and today, hoping to work it loose enough that I'll be able to spit it out at will. Of course, if I do loosen it, I can't let the Careers find out. What a fun conundrum, right?

"I'm starting to think this whole thing is completely one-sided," Marvel remarks, startling me. I guess everyone here is an expert at stealth except for me. Figures.

I roll my head in his direction and glare.

"I mean, you've been here long enough for her to notice that you're missing and yet…"

_Go ahead and say it, you smug bastard._

"Where is she?" Marvel stretches his arms wide. The silence of the arena is the only answer to his question. "I hate to say it, man, but I don't really think she cares if you live or die."

I dig the tread of my boots into the earth. I know I should conserve my energy but, damn it, it feels _good_ to get angry.

"Oh, don't get up on my account," he mockingly placates me.

I struggle to my feet, bracing myself on my heels and alternately lifting my hips and pulling on my arms until I'm standing, panting through my raw-to-the-point-of-burning sinuses, and sweaty from the exertion.

Marvel grins at me. "Your girl on fire is one cold bitch, Twelve."

And all of Panem thinks I'm a moron for falling in love with her. That just goes to show how little they know and how much they underestimate her.

Still, this is not good for Katniss. She can't go back to Twelve and expect any sort of welcome if I die like this. Nor can she expect many sponsors.

Goddamn it.

I need to run damage control, explain that I was the one who betrayed her, who failed her. Whatever happens to me cannot end up being viewed as Katniss' fault. It _can't._

I gnaw at the gag. I've been trying to bite through the fabric ever since the previous evening and I doubt it'll give now. I guess that makes me terminally slow, irredeemably stubborn, incredibly idiotic. All I manage to do is draw out what little moisture there is in my mouth and further chap the corners of my lips. They feel raw.

"Next cannon's gonna be for her," Marvel predicts with a wink that makes my stomach drop and my face heat with fury. "I hope you don't mind that I ruined the suspense for you."

_Say that again when I'm crushing your larynx under my boot heel, you—!_

I'm roaring pissed, silently calling Marvel every name I can think of, and so enraged that I've convinced myself that I could take him down right now if only lightning would strike my bonds and free me. Screw my empty stomach and all the rest of it. I'm mad enough to kill him with my bare, numb hands.

_Untie me._

_Fight me._

_I'll take you._

_Arrogant bastard, you'll regret—_

And then a flicker of motion in the distance grabs my attention. I squint past Marvel's shoulder at a column of white-grey smoke slithering upward in the deep blue sky.

Marvel notices my distracted gaze, turns, and rouses the others with a shout. He's already sprinting for the woods when Clove appears and pounds after him. To my surprise, Cato shoves a spear in Bobry's hand and hauls him in the direction of the forest.

Huh. I guess someone just got promoted.

Of course, there's no reason for anyone to stand guard while there are tributes out there to kill. As far as they know, the bow and arrows were removed from the arena with Glimmer's body. I'm surrounded by mines, tied up, and gagged. If anyone tries to help me or go for the supplies, they'll be blown to bits.

I study the rising smoke off in the distance and a cold certainty blossoms in the center of my chest before radiating into my trembling limbs. Maybe that fire was set by Katniss. Maybe she's trying to distract the Careers so she can get to me.

Oh, God. I hope like hell Rue remembered to tell her about the land mines.

But just in case she hadn't…

I turn my face toward the trunk of the tree and scrape the gag against the rough bark. I push against the material with my swollen tongue and work my jaw lower. I push, pull, and rub – first on the right and then on the left – as I try to peel off the binding. The tree bark bites into my skin. It scrapes and stings. I'm sure I'm bleeding, but if I can just get the Goddamn fabric to catch on something—!

And then it's too late.

I hear a soft whistle and I freeze. My heart turns to ice.

I look across the field.

My heart shatters. Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles down my neck. My body flushes in a searing wave of panic.

There at the edge of the forest, stands Katniss. It's pretty much the very same spot from where I'd stopped to watch her flee the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, the spot from where I'd helplessly watched as she'd almost been murdered by Clove two minutes into the Games.

She scans the meadow warily as she takes one, two, three steps forward.

By now, I'm shaking my head frantically. She cannot come any closer. It's not safe. I consider screaming through the gag, but I think that would only make her want to hear what I'm trying to tell her, only draw her nearer. I stomp my foot instead.

She halts.

I think about jerking my chin toward the pedestals, but I have no guarantee that she'd figure out what I'm trying to say. She might just move in that direction, making her position even more exposed out here. Shit. What do I do now? How do I tell her about the mines? How do I get her to just _go?_

_Forget the sponsors! Save yourself! I'm not worth the risk!_

I watch, my eyes widening, as she lifts the bow meaningfully. Katniss then gestures with her hands for me to spin around and pull my bindings taut between my wrists. She reaches for an arrow, nocks it, and waits.

Holy shit.

Um. Okay. I guess I'm dead anyway. If Katniss misses, this way will be faster.

I shuffle around to the other side of the tree, facing away from her.

I make myself remember all the squirrels my dad had traded for. Every single one of them had been the victim of a perfect shot. Of course, I have no way of knowing how many squirrels _hadn't _met their end thanks to an arrow in the eye. For all I know those were the best ones, the ones she knew she could get a better trade with.

I press my back against the tree, which suddenly seems like little more than a sapling in size, and fist my hands.

My heart thunders in my chest.

I pull the bindings as tightly as I can and press the thin rope against the bark of the tree.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I draw in a careful breath and hold it.

_Shoot straight._

I don't hear her draw the string tight. My shoulders are shaking, but I keep my hands steady, ignoring the way the ropes bite into my already raw wrists. I've barely heard the whistle of the arrow before I'm suddenly stumbling forward, my arms dropping limply to my sides.

In the fading light, I stare at the frayed ends of the rope and then stagger around to the front of the tree. A single arrow protrudes from the trunk.

Oh, wow.

I look up and meet Katniss' gaze across the clearing. My grin pulls at the gag. I think I see her smile, too. Maybe even roll her eyes. She gestures for me to get my ass over there.

With a shake of my head, I contemplate the problem this stuck arrow now presents. My hands are numb, immovable, and useless, but I can't leave this arrow here and let it be discovered. I have to keep Katniss' secret for as long as possible. After a brief hesitation, I hook the shaft of the arrow in the crook of my elbow, clamp my other forearm over the top of it and wiggle it, loosening it from the tree. I slide down toward the plastic fletch and, with one good, hard yank, it pops free.

Now, how to carry it? I maneuver it between my swollen fingers and stick it down the front of my jacket. The arrowhead wedges into my pants pocket and I'm good to go.

Katniss is still standing in the same place, but she's scanning the meadow with her bow loaded and held at the ready, prepared to lay down cover fire. The wind blows un-captured strands of her inky hair across her brow and cheek. Her grey eyes glint in the fading light, shining with purpose, determination, _fire._ Goddess of the hunt. Child-queen of archers. She is so fierce and beautiful, that I can't help it.

I will love this girl forever.

_Move it, Peet. Don't keep a lady waiting._

Right. I'll write her some poetry later.

I roll my shoulders to loosen them, put out my arms for balance, and carefully place my feet. I'd paid attention when Marvel and Clove had marched me over here to tie me up yesterday and I'd spent all last night and today obsessively going over the sequence of steps, studying each blade of grass and clump of earth. My faith in Katniss had never wavered. I knew she'd come. The only question had been whether or not she'd figure out the risks, but she had. She'd figured out a way to help me _and _avoid the mines. Now it's up to me to make it back to her.

I grit my teeth as I follow the safe path, more uncertain of my memory than I'll ever be of her loyalty. I hold my breath.

And I don't stop holding it even after I'm clear and sprinting those last few steps out of the clearing. I can feel the wind tugging at my hair, chilling the sweat against my skin. I run toward Katniss, focus on her, on her, on _her._

I force myself to stick to a path leading slightly to her right. She won't thank me for coming between her arrow and any target she spots. I crash into the forest just two paces away, my arms lifted up to deflect the whip-like branches. If I weren't still gagged, I'd be sobbing with relief. It's all I can do not to choke.

I've made it out of the clearing. Oh, wow. It feels amazing just to be the hell away from there.

Katniss melts soundlessly into the brush beside me and I curl my body toward her. I'm free, yes, but I'm still not quite ready to stand on my own.

"Hey," she whispers and I have never been so happy to hear the sound of her voice.

Oh, God have I missed her.

She swings her bow over her shoulder and pulls the knife from her belt. "Give me your hands."

I pant shallowly, trembling in the shadows as she carefully saws through the ropes. My right hand begins to tingle just as the bindings fall away from my left wrist.

"Hold still," she murmurs and carefully works the blade under the gag that covers my mouth. The flat of the blade is cold where it slides against my skin just in front of my ear. I'm shaking harder than ever by the time the fabric shreds and then sags. Katniss replaces the knife in her belt and carefully peels the offensive material away from my face. I lean back against the nearest tree and relish the sensation of being able to breathe as deeply as I want.

She tugs the water bottle from her pack and holds it up for me, angling it shallowly, tipping it up for short intervals at a time until I nod in thanks. "Katniss…" Her name sounds like a growl my voice is so hoarse.

"You're okay," she tells me, and it's not a reassurance. It's a command.

I nod anyway.

"Can you keep running?"

"Yes," I croak. My legs ache from the past day of inactivity, but they work fine. They _will _work fine.

She pulls the heat reflective blanket from her pack and hastily unzips my jacket. I gape at her as she moves quickly, removing the arrow I'd fetched and placing the rolled up blanket and the water bottle against my chest, side by side, before zipping it all back up and tying the drawstring tight at my waist.

"No," I hiss. "The water—"

But she's already putting the iodine dropper and some food in my coat pockets. "Go to the river. I'll find you."

Her gaze is urgent, gleaming in the orange light of the setting sun, and her grip slides up to my shoulders, clutching as if she needs to steady herself, as if she is just now realizing how utterly terrifying those moments in the meadow had been. My arms spasm with exhaustion and the need to hold her, even if it's just for a moment.

I take a half step toward her, uncaring that the whole damn world is watching. Her hands slide down. Her fingers curl and tighten on my biceps, and then she's pulling-pushing-pressing herself flush against me, ignoring the bulk of the supplies between us, wrapping her arms around my neck and—

Oh, God. She feels so good. So warm and alive and _Katniss…_

"You have to go," she whispers softly, her breath stirring against my dirty, sweaty, clammy neck. I shudder. "I have to blow up the supplies while everyone's gone."

"The land mines—" I begin, still clutching her as tightly as she's holding me. Maybe tighter. If my fingers had been capable of it, they would have been curling into her jacket in a hold that not even death could loosen.

"I know. I have a plan. It'll be okay, but you have to go. Hide by the river. I'll be there soon."

I'm not ready to let her go yet. I press my face against her neck and try to ignore the steady burning in my hands as the blood begins to circulate again. "When?"

"I have to check on Rue first."

"Don't travel at night. I'll wait."

"…okay."

Her arms loosen slowly – and, dare I hope, reluctantly? – and I force myself to release her. Light is fading fast and I know she will need what little remains in order to finish what she has started. I also know that I'm too slow, too loud, and it'll be hours before I can use my hands reliably. I'll just get in her way.

"Stay alive," she tells me.

If I weren't so exhausted, I'd laugh. I nod instead, imagining Haymitch's sarcastic eye roll. Despite my best efforts at martyrdom and self-destructive stupidity, I am still alive. Her hands slide downward, squeezing each of my forearms in tandem before she steps away and turns back to the clearing.

"Hey, Katniss," I rasp.

She pauses, turns, waits.

"Nice shot."

Her eyes soften and there's _that look_ again. "Thanks."

* * *

**This total divergence from the Hunger Games book and movie has been brought to you by Manny. And maybe Peeta. He has this thing for getting Katniss to go all badass and rescue him. (Don't worry. He'll return the favor with his mad liar skillz.)**

**And you all can thank Heather the Lovely Anon Reviewer for this update. I was gonna put it off while I work on my Viking Era Everlark fic (for the Prompts in Panem March 2013 fic event on Tumblr) but, as Heather pointed out, Peeta has been in peril for a week. That is rather cruel. Hence the update.**


	15. The Sword

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "The Bird and the Worm" by The Used

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**The Sword**

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I try to move quietly as I lope through the gloom. I'm anxious about getting caught again, but only because Katniss had given me the blanket, water bottle, and iodine. She shouldn't have done that. She should have kept them. She's the one who needs to survive. Not me.

But I think I can guess why my jacket is bulging with those particular treasures: Katniss is determined that I stay alive, and I'm determined to make sure I return these things to her so that _she _can stay alive. Two goals, but one stipulation: I have to make sure I don't die on her.

No, Katniss doesn't waste time arguing and persuading until she's blue in the face. She's obviously never had to rely on the weight of words the way I have, never had to hide behind them. Katniss is all about action and she'd gotten her message across loud and clear. She and I are both on the same page now, and she never even had to say a thing.

My chuckle sounds more like a cough, but my mirth is genuine. How can two kids like us – broken in so many of the same ways – be so completely different?

But then, just look at us. I'm practically worthless in the arena, at least from the standpoint of wilderness survival skills. So what if I can start a fire without matches. Big deal. Katniss could probably survive in the arena indefinitely if not for the Gamemakers and their sadistic surprises.

"Lover Boy. Why am I not surprised?"

_Goddamn it!_ Can't I just catch a break already?

I jog to a stop and sigh. "Cato." I don't even pretend to be happy to see him, but I think of Katniss, still so close by and circling the clearing, moving ahead with her plan to take out the supplies and level the camp. I need to delay him from getting back. The longer I keep him here, the less likely he'll be to run into Katinss before she can get out of there.

Grinning smugly, I tell him, "You missed a hell of a magic show just now."

His gaze flickers down to my still-swollen, red-raw hands and wrists. "I doubt that."

"You don't believe in magic? How sad."

"I believe your girl on fire showed up and rescued your worthless ass." He sounds sure of that, but he scowls, clearly confused. He's trying to figure out how she'd managed it without blowing herself up in the process.

I raise my hands in the classic I-mean-you-no-harm gesture and wiggle my stiff fingers. "A master of the art never reveals his secrets," I counter with a wry grin. I'm lying again. I'd revealed the secret of my childhood favorite to Rue just two days ago.

"Doesn't matter," Cato grunts, casting aside his irritation and grinning at me. It's not friendly to show off that many teeth. "I'll get to see it on the recap when I have my next interview with Caesar." He lifts his sword and takes an intimidating step forward.

I should run, but I know I won't get far. I have no idea if Katniss is anywhere near ready to blow up the supplies. I have to find a way to give her more time.

I think of the other Careers. Maybe Clove and Marvel never had any intention of going to check out that fire. Maybe they'd just wanted to give Katniss and me the impression that they were. Maybe they're patrolling the edge of the clearing even now, hunting her. Maybe Katniss is crouching in some brush, hiding and waiting for them to move off so she can escape. Maybe this is all for nothing.

No. I won't believe that. If I do, it would be the same as giving up, and I won't give up. Ever.

I drawl, "You must have a magic trick of your own up your sleeve if you really think you're gonna be making it out here as the victor."

"Like you?" he sneers. Clearly, I'm a failure. I'm an annoyance he should have dealt with that first night down by the river. My time is running out.

"Sure." I sound way more confident than I actually am. Not that Cato or all of Panem needs to know that.

"Then, by all means, attempt to lengthen your pathetic existence for one more minute, and tell me about it," he invites.

I think of Katniss, of her arms around my shoulders not ten minutes ago and her breath puffing softly against my neck. I think of her tucked up snuggly against my side on the window ledge of the suite back in the Capitol. I think of her hand in mine in the elevator on our way to our private sessions with the Gamemakers. I think of that first smile, that first warm look, that first moment of trust-that-might-someday-be-more. It won't be more. This is it for me. Cato's going to run me through and I never told Katniss that I love her – really love _her _and not the memory of a little girl who smiled and sang – and I won't be able to help her make it to the end of the Games like I promised. I regret so much, but I figure that's probably normal for most people who are about to die. I have more than they do, though: I have the attention of the cameras. This is probably my last chance to help her, to tell her how I feel, to be there for her.

I tell the world, which is undoubtedly watching, "True love. That's my magic, and it's in a class all its own."

Cato's lip curls. "I'm going to enjoy taking you apart piece by piece, Twelve."

I don't doubt it, but I'm not going to make it easy for him. If he's here, then he's not hunting Katniss. It's not much, but I'll take it.

This time, when Cato takes a step forward, I move back. He prowls closer and I weave between the trees, keeping as many obstacles between us as I can, circling away from the clearing, giving Katniss more room to work and more time to accomplish her goal. Cato hacks through saplings and brush with his sword, not bothering to step around anything unless he absolutely has to. I make sure he has to.

I'm not winning any bonus points for it, though.

"Should have known you'd make this difficult," Cato growls, slashing the sword through the air and just missing me as I take a timely stumble backward. "All of you from the outer districts are the same. Cowards."

I can almost hear Haymitch drawl, _Actually, snot-wipe, it's called "self-preservation," but I wouldn't expect you to know a word with that many letters in it._

Haymitch's imaginary reaction is so sudden and vivid that I hear myself laugh.

Bad move.

Cato's face flushes and his scowl digs itself so deeply into his face that I expect to see blood seeping from the grooves. He charges forward, lunging at me.

I throw myself behind a cluster of young trees and trip my way toward the distant river. I weave as erratically as I can, stagger as agilely as possible, focus on staying on my toes and keeping my weight centered. This isn't a wrestling match, but yet again I'm relying on a skill that has transferred into the arena with me.

The sword blade whistles and whips through the air. I lurch behind the next tree, trying to keep my eyes on Cato while checking the ground behind me for obstacles. I think of pulling out the blanket from my jacket and maybe hurling it at him, catching him in it. If only my fingers could manage the zipper. If only I had the few extra seconds I'd need to sandwich the tab between my palms and slide it down. If only my hands were dexterous enough to tie him up in that swath of cloth.

If only—

I feint right, lunge left, and trip backward.

If only I'd kept my Goddamn balance.

I scramble away on my screamingly sore hands, pedaling my feet against the ground, hoping my boot tread will catch on something, offer me traction, help me launch myself further away from the gleaming steel in the gloaming.

_Whoosh!_

I tuck my arms in and roll.

Cato's footsteps sound like thunder claps in the darkening forest.

I get enough momentum to gain my knees.

He advances.

_Swish!_

Halfway to standing, I windmill my arms. I feel the kiss of a cold breeze against my chin. So close. So damn close.

I need to move faster!

I grope behind me, praying for my path to stay clear just one more step, one more step, one more step! The shadows are thickening and my eyes are struggling to track the boy with the sword intent on killing me. There's no way I can watch where I'm going.

I'm not going to make it.

Cato leaps forward.

I jerk to the side—

—crash into a tree—

The sword—!

My entire body spasms. I can feel my pulse racing. I can hear my breaths. They blast in the twilight whereas they didn't even register in my awareness moments ago when I'd been playing for time, stumbling through the gloom.

I'm not stumbling now.

I'm fairly certain I've been skewered to the tree behind me.

There's no pain, but I can feel the edge of the blade grate against bone. Against _my _bone. In my leg.

_This is not good._

Cato grins and slowly draws the sword from my thigh. "What happened to you magic, Lover Boy? True love couldn't save you?"

The tree trembles behind me. Or… wait. That's _me,_ isn't it? Great. Just great.

I still can't feel the pain, but there's an odd pulling sensation, like heat is leaking out of my leg at a rapid rate. I know it's not just heat. I know what's leaking out.

I try not to think about it too much.

Instead, I wrack my brain for something – anything – I can do to prolong this just a little more, but I'm afraid that if I move, my leg will buckle and it might be shallow of me, but I'd rather meet my end standing upright. I guess I do have a bit of male pride in me somewhere.

Drawing in a deep breath, I clench my jaw and blink my eyes shut. When I open them, I return Cato's vicious smile with a glare. He takes a step back, lifts the sword. A drop of blood falls from the edge of the blade to the forest floor.

"It's been fun, Lover Boy," Cato tells me.

I brace myself.

He attacks.

I dive right, crashing to the forest floor and rolling. I can hear Cato swearing as I claw my way to my feet with the aid of a helpful tree. Not as helpful as the one that Cato's sword is currently stuck in, but helpful nonetheless.

There's still no pain. I'm still in shock, I think. My left leg is so weak it's more or less worthless, but a limping retreat is better than none at all. I take a half dozen rushed and gimpy steps and then I hear it.

_BOOM!_

She did it.

_BOOM! BOOM!_

The forest, the arena, _the world _shakes with the force of the cascading blast. The mines explode one after another, then several all at once, and I dizzily push and pull myself deeper into the woods. I don't know how far I've gone when I realize three things. One, I'm smiling and whispering Katniss' name over and over again like a madman. Two, no one's following me. And, three, if I don't stop the bleeding in the next five minutes, I'll probably be dead.

I collapse on a thick tree root and yank at the zipper tab on my jacket. Now that I'm no longer moving, the pain is starting to register, and I can tell that it's only going to get worse from here on out. My fingers still feel like tender, too-full sausages, but I manage to wrestle the blanket free. Using my teeth, I bite down on the corner of it and, wrapping it around my hands, give it a great heave. It tears neatly along the weave – finally, some damn luck! – and I start wrapping it around my thigh, over my trousers, as tightly as I can stand. When I get to the knot-tying part of things, I have to slow down, take a few measured breaths, and focus.

In the darkness, I can barely see my own hands and I have to watch what I'm doing because I still feel nothing but hot, scraped, raw skin _everywhere_ below my wrists. The material of the blanket might as well be imaginary for all I can feel it.

The double knot I end up with is messy – definitely not my usual – but it's tight and I have to keep moving. I pick up the first available fallen tree limb that is long enough to be used as a staff, thick enough to support my weight, and green enough not to break. I go through about five before I find a winner.

I sip the water Katniss had foisted on me in counterpoint to the now-burning pain in my leg that roars at me every time I bump my toes against the ground. Both help keep me conscious as I continue onward toward the river. At least, I think I'm heading for the river. I have no idea now. I'm exhausted, light-headed, drenched in blood. A veritable smorgasbord of tasty tribute for whatever lives in these woods and has an inclination for meat.

I have got to get under cover. Either find shelter or make it. Bury the scent of blood.

But first, the river. Katniss will come to the river. She'll—

_Boom!_

No!

I stumble into a tree in order to halt my forward momentum. That was the cannon. Someone is dead.

Oh, God. Katniss!

I look up in the sky, shuffling away from the trunk and boughs so I can see clearly and—

Bobry's face looks back at me.

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit._

But, damn it, it's not like he was gonna make it out of here anyway, not if I still wanted Katniss to go home to Twelve. And I do. I guess I'd thought it would stop hurting at some point, that my heart would harden or I'd no longer have the capacity to feel disappointed every time a tribute dies.

I'm starting to understand that I'll never get used to it. I hope Katniss does, because this is killing me.

I laugh. I probably look – and sound – like a lunatic with a heart of stone, but I have to laugh. If I don't, I'll cry. At least the laughter doesn't make my vision blur even more than it already does.

Even though I'd told Katniss not to travel at night, I don't take my own advice. Hell, it's not as if I've got anything to lose except more blood. That thought prompts to me try and set an easier pace. I don't want to die before I see Katniss again. I need her to know that everything's okay, that it was always going to end up this way. She was always going to be the winner. I need to thank her for being my friend, for trusting me, for letting me be myself. It's really important that she know how much she means to me, how much she must mean to others because there's no way I'm the only one who is affected by her.

Gale Hawthorne comes to mind.

I grit my teeth and pretend I didn't just have that thought.

I lose track of time. More and more, it feels like the night is bodily dragging me along.

I'm certain that I'm never going to make it to the river.

But, eventually, I do. I hear it before I can trip and fall into it. Conveniently, I arrive only about a hundred yards from a rocky outcrop, under which I discover a Peeta-sized hollow.

Good enough.

I wrap myself in the blanket and wedge my lower body in under the overhang, settling down against the soggy earth. It would be pointless to try and scoop mud and silt up for camouflage in the dark. I'll take care of it in the morning. If I'm still alive. At this point, I don't have the energy to care.

* * *

**I'm still working on my Viking Era AU Everlark - "Daughter of Samland, Son of Denmark."**

**It would be nice to hear from you guys about "Courage and Sacrifice." (We're at the halfway point now, by the way.) Comments, feedback, squees make me so very happy.**


	16. The River

Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy my geek-out... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I own my fangirl squee. Fear the power of the Squee.

Theme music: "Mercy" by OneRepublic

NOTES: Over the next few chapters, dialog and events (e.g. Gamemaker announcements) will be jumbled up in a new sequence that (I think) matches the development of the characters and their relationship in this fic. I DON'T WANT TO CONFUSE ANYONE. So, that was your, er, Manny Mixer warning, I guess. (^_^)

* * *

**The River**

* * *

I wake to a surge of panic and the fading echo of the cannon.

"No…" I rasp, but there's no one to answer me. No answers to be had. It's late morning or early afternoon – some unbearably bright part of the day – and there are no tribute photos in the sky. I'll have to wait until dark to know if it was Katniss.

I can't wait until dark.

I will go insane.

I start digging in the mud, beginning the process of burying myself, hiding from reality. The movement makes my leg throb and my vision go bright white and annoyingly dark at irregular intervals. A little spontaneity to liven things up. Marvelous.

I've almost managed to convince myself that the cannon blast was just a bad dream, just the lingering terror of a nightmare, when I hear it again.

Oh, God. It could be her. The odds are worse now than ever before. It could be her.

It isn't.

It could be.

But it _isn't._

It isn't.

It occurs to me after I've piled muck and rocks onto myself that I haven't eaten anything in over two days, and yet, somehow, it just doesn't seem all that important. The bottle of water is still tucked into my jacket – half-full – but I don't reach for it. That would take too much effort.

I take a nap instead.

Sometimes I open my eyes.

At one point, I think I see a girl with red hair across the river, digging for roots. She looks familiar but I can't really spare the energy to figure out who she is. I drift away again, falling into the pain that throbs like a steady drumbeat in my thigh. The rest of my body feels heavy and cold while my left leg feels tingly and hot. How strange.

Later, after blinking open my eyes to study the frothing water for a bit, I remember that poem I was going to write for Katniss, my archer-goddess-queen. I try out different words but they don't knit together quite right. They don't flow, splash, crash like the river and it's very important that it sound just like that. Katniss is like this river. Unstoppable. Wild. And surely there's some sort of comparison I can make between its determined path in one direction at any given time and Katniss' unerring aim, which is always sure and certain.

I don't think I've ever been that sure about anything. That must be another reason, then, for why I fell in love with her. It bothers me that I hadn't given Rue any reasons. There are lots of reasons. I just hadn't wanted to say them, share them. Ah yes, that's right. I remember now. Those reasons are for Katniss. I'd tell Katniss but not the Gamemakers. I'm not sharing a single sound byte of my feelings for her with them. They fire the cannons. They kill the tributes. They murder children.

Prim never would've had a chance against Cato, Clove, and Marvel. How can it be fair to send twelve-year-olds to fight in a death match against adults? Eighteen is as grown as most people get. Although Baxter grew a bit more after that, and Duff is the biggest of all of us. They're almost tall. I'll never be almost tall. I'm going to die at the age of sixteen. Eternally the shortest brother.

I sigh. "Katniss…"

I still have no idea how to even begin that stupid poem.

_It won't be very good if you're already calling it stupid._

True.

I give up for now. Maybe I'll find the words later. Maybe I won't, like I never found the perfect words to say to Katniss back in Twelve.

_Pathetic._

We've already established that, I think.

_Coward._

No, no. I don't think so. I didn't scream last night when Cato stabbed me. And I didn't panic when he went for the killing blow. Actually, that flinch was kind of inspired. With his sword jammed into the tree, I'd gotten a lead on him, on death. I wonder where he'd gone after that. Back to the camp, probably. To lose his shit over the destruction of the supplies and kill Bobry. How had he done it? With the sword? Or had he yanked the spear out of Bobry's hands and driven it into his gut?

If my stomach hadn't already turned into a dried-out husk, I probably would have heaved up whatever was in it. But I don't.

No puking. No screaming. No panicking. I'm doing all right. Everything's fine. I'm fine.

Well, no. I'm not, but… that's fine.

I've been part of the river bank for what feels like the whole of my existence – I know there must have been a time when I'd walked around and done things, but I can't summon the resources to remember much about it – when I hear the soft brush of footsteps approaching.

I open my eyes and wait.

A moment – an age – passes and then I see her. Bow in hand, her hair set aflame by the sunlight pouring over her, her face pulled into the thoughtful scowl I know so well, her gaze searching, searching, searching…

Unthinkingly, I search for her. My hand, weighed down with mud that seems abnormally heavy, stretches toward her boot. I clutch her ankle, startling her.

Hah. I'd just scared Katniss Everdeen and she hasn't shot me yet. A miracle.

"Oh, my God. Peeta!"

"Hey," I greet on half a stale breath, closing my eyes for a moment. It hurts to keep them open for long. The sunlight is too strong. It makes my head ache and spin. When I open them again, she is crouching over me, reaching for the rocks and moss, peeling back my camouflage. How fitting. I should work that into my poem. Katniss is the only one who can peel back my camouflage, flush me out of hiding, force me into the light.

I let her.

Her arm works its way underneath my shoulders. "I've got you," she whispers.

Yes, she does.

She tugs insistently until I cooperate, contribute what strength I have to the endeavor, and then I find myself in the circle of her arms, my forehead leaning against her shoulder, her cheek pressed to my grimy, mud-crusted hair. I would give anything for the strength to raise my arms and hug her back.

Anything.

But I have nothing.

Katniss squirms her way between my back and the rocks. She sits behind me, leans me against her, and reaches for the front of my jacket, commanding the zipper in a way that I'm afraid I'll never manage again. She makes it look so easy. It's not. It's really not.

I hold still, dazed by the new elevation my head is at, and she pulls out the water bottle. She wipes my mouth with her shirt sleeve and rubs the grit into my raw and chapped lips. It hurts. I don't bother to tell her so. When she lifts the water bottle to my lips, I drink. She tries to get me to eat some jerky, but I turn my head away. I manage a few berries and only because she says, "Please, Peeta."

I can't say no to those words, that tone, her.

"Can you move closer to the river?"

I think about it. I guess I think about it a little too long, though, because she eventually lays me back down and starts rinsing me off using the body-heat-warmed contents of the water bottle. This doesn't hurt at all. It's wonderful. I sigh.

Katniss chuckles. She _chuckles._ "Found you," she teases me, her fingers moving slowly through my wet hair and smoothing over my scraped cheeks.

"Yeah, you found me." The water I'd drunk and the berries I'd eaten seem to have helped me piece myself back together somewhat because I know that reply had been pretty lame and not at all in the same league as my usual rejoinders.

Katniss doesn't seem to mind. "I promised you I would."

Yes, she had.

"Try some beef now," she proposes and I wish I could say yes, just to make her happy.

"Can't chew it."

"Then try some of this. It's groosling. A bird."

The smell alone is enough to make the berries charge up from my gut in a frantic rush for the nearest available exit. I turn away and choke them back down. Katniss stiffens. I can tell she's not pleased with me. I try and think of something to say, something that would have calmed my mother when she'd been less than pleased.

I come up with a whole lot of nothing.

Katniss shifts and I'm terrified that she's going to leave. I strain to heave myself up into a sitting position. If I can just turn a bit and catch her arm, maybe—

"Shhh," she breathes, her fingers squeezing my shoulder and her breath against my temple. "It's okay."

Oh. Oh, okay.

Katniss slides her hands under my arms until I'm trapped in the crook of her elbows. "I'm going to pull you out now. You have to help me and push."

"Okay."

I'm pretty sure I suck at my end of things, but I try not to resist even though the vibration of my boot tread bouncing over the rock is enough to make me scream, but I don't. I bite through my lip. Katniss wipes away the blood carefully with her bare fingers.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I tell her, mesmerized.

She looks down at my legs and I know what she sees. "What was it?"

"A sword."

"I'm sorry." The words are as soft as the breeze from a butterfly's wings.

She lowers me down onto my elbows and moves to kneel by my thigh. After cutting through the mass of knotted blanket scrap, she carefully peels back the shredded bits of my trousers. I can't see the wound well from here, but the look on her face is not encouraging.

"It's bad, huh?"

"It's gonna be fine."

I can't tell if she really believes that. I know I sure don't. "Katniss—"

"Shh."

I hold my breath as she pours more water – cold this time – over my leg, drenching my pants. "Katniss, just stop. It's no use—"

Her gaze slams into mine. I shut up. She hasn't looked this fierce since I'd spoken to her on the train, but whereas that moment was all ice, this is stone. She is not moving on this. Nothing I can say will persuade her.

"I'm not going to leave you. I'm not going to do that."

Discussion: over.

I don't ask her why. I know why. I reach for her hand, grasp it weakly in mine, and shakily bring it to my mouth. She crouches over me as I briefly press my lips to the same spot I'd kissed once before. I don't look away from her eyes. I watch her tongue appear and quickly wet her lips. She swallows.

She says, "We'll get you some medicine."

I shake my head and my lips brush against the back of her hand. "There won't be any parachutes for me. They're for you. You're going to win."

Katniss refuses to listen to reason. "You have sponsors, Peeta. I know it. We just… we need to find shelter. Come on. I saw a place further up the hill."

Up a _hill._ Oh, God. Walking will be unbearable agony. Climbing will surely destroy me.

She pulls on my arms, careful not to grab my chafed wrists. "Peeta. You have to. Help me. Please?"

I stand. I walk. I climb. I limp so hard my spine aches and I bite my lip until it bleeds again. I grasp for trees, lever myself off of rocks, and lean too heavily on her, but I do as she asks. Why? Because she's right: she needs my help. Surely, there's something I can say to get her more sponsors. Besides, she'd said those two words again: my name and a plea.

Death is coming for me, but I can't leave her yet. Just… please, not yet. Her arm is around my waist and she's so warm, so Katniss. So strong and stubborn and I just can't give up yet. I have to tell her… She needs to _know…_

"Here," she murmurs and I blink. I'm looking at the mouth of a cave.

"How did you know this was here?"

"I found it. Before I found the tracker jackers."

When I look at her, she refuses to meet my gaze. I study her profile. I love her so much it hurts. It hurts worse than my leg or my wrists or even my head which I think is about to split open from all the jostling it's gotten during our trek. I love her because she didn't give up on me. I love her because she scouted the arena, trying to find some kind of advantage to exploit against the Careers. I love her because she came for me in the clearing, shot the arrow that freed me, tracked me to the river, and hauled me back from the threshold of Death's door.

I suddenly remember how scared and frustrated I'd been the night before the Games, wishing I could think of a way to show them that they don't own me. Of course they don't own me. Of course not. Because Katniss owns more of me than they could ever take away.

* * *

NOTES: Yes, dialog from the movie and book is all mixed up here. Also, there hasn't been an announcement from the Gamemakers yet. Things are rolling a little bit differently in the C&S 'verse.

MANY THANKS to all my generous reviewers. Your comments make me feel so very special. You guys are the BEST.

And, yes, there might possibly, maybe be a continuation of this fic. Maybe.


	17. The Cave

Notes: More jumbled up dialog and events in this chapter. Plus Manny-isms.

Theme music: "This Ain't Goodbye" by Train

* * *

**The Cave**

* * *

"No one's going to find you in here."

Katniss' whispered vow fills the small, dark, dank cavern. Her voice is gentle but her grip is firm as she helps me lie back. The blanket has been rolled up and tucked beneath my head, the sleeping bag spread out on the uneven floor. I watch as Katniss organizes our supplies.

We both know her reassurances and efforts aren't going to matter. _They already found me._

I hadn't intended on saying those words aloud, but when Katniss stops in the middle of setting her arrows within easy reach, I figure that I must have. I sigh. Damn it.

She kneels next to me, as still as a statue, and I try to work out how to unsay what I'd just said.

Her hand finds mine. I can feel her fingers curling round the edge of my palm. She's so careful to avoid my wrists, to not squeeze too tightly. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," I tell her, and I smile helplessly at the memory of Cinna setting us on fire. I meet Katniss' gaze. That fire never went out. We're still burning.

Her lips twitch into a small grin. Her eyes soften. "I know. You're strong."

If only I could stay here forever, in this moment, with her. Stop time. Still the Earth on its axis. What good is strength if I can't do that? I don't let that thought find its way onto my tongue.

"Because of you," I tell her. "I learned from the best."

Do I imagine that her chin trembles? When she blinks rapidly and looks away, I'm pretty sure it had been real. _Real._

I'm alone with Katniss Everdeen. She is holding my hand. Whispering to me, reassuring me, shoring me up. Caring about me.

This is real.

It's finally real and I'm forced to share it with all of Panem, with the bloodthirsty citizens of the Capitol, with everyone back home in Twelve. No, I haven't forgotten about the cameras – how could I? – but Katniss…? She knows they're watching and yet she's giving me this?

I don't honestly know how that makes me feel except I'm overwhelmed by the urge to wrap the blanket around both of us and shut out the rest of the world so that it's just us. Just us.

She leans away. "You have to eat more." Her voice is rough, thick, and tumbling. She reaches for one of the packs she'd brought and I note the lack of camouflage, the lack of grime-smeared orange. It's not her backpack, but it looks familiar. I can't quite place it.

But it doesn't really matter. Katniss pulls out something that she is no doubt determined to make me eat. She's still holding onto my hand and, for that reason alone, I resolve not to put up a fight. I have no interest in being difficult, in pushing her away. She stubbornly keeps me at a distance, but if I'm patient, she might venture nearer. I know it's selfish to want that. I'll be dead in a day or two. I know I'm not well. Down by the river, I hadn't been thinking very clearly. I may feel a bit more solidly in the here-and-now at this very moment, but I sense how easily and quickly I could slip back into that feverish state of half-dreams… and I might not pull out of it the next time.

_Not yet,_ I beg whoever or whatever may be listening. I need just a little more time to tell her everything so that I can leave her with no unnecessary regrets. There's nothing I can do about some of them: I will regret making her sad; I will regret leaving her to face the other tributes alone. But I don't have to regret never giving her what she will accept. Words. Katniss will take my words. Maybe it'll be enough.

She cradles a handful of Rue's berries. Resigned, I reach for them but am confused when she dodges my grasp. Or had I missed? Sometimes the world wobbles unexpectedly so I'm not really sure.

"No, I'll do it," she whispers, lifting one to my lips.

Not that I want to stop her, but she shouldn't have to feed me. I'm starved for her – a look, a touch, a word, a laugh, _anything_ – but Katniss can't be comfortable doing this for me. I protest as gently as I can despite my roaring pulse, "I can—"

"Let me." She scowls as if I'm being contrary on purpose, as if she has every right to do this and I'm being rude to try and stop her. "You fed me once."

Oh, God. "I think about that all the time," I admit in a rush, forgetting about the fruit only a moment away from my mouth, "how I tossed you that bread. I should have gone to you. I should have just gone out in the rain and—"

She shushes me and I close my eyes at the blissful feel of her cool hand brushing my hair back from my forehead. "Shh, Peeta."

No. No, I won't hush up. I've been too silent for too long.

"I remember the first time I saw you," I murmur in a broken rush. My voice cracks as I recall what my father had said to me on the first day of school, how he'd wanted to marry Katniss' mother once long ago and why he hadn't. I tell her about the moment I knew there wouldn't be anyone else for me – the moment she sang the Valley Song – and how fascinated by her I'd been after that, helpless in my fearful silence, only able to watch her from afar. I ramble and, eventually, Katniss stops trying to make me quiet down. She stops telling me how hot my skin feels. As if a fever could excuse my cowardly past.

"And then my name got picked," I hurry onward, the sickening ache in my leg pushing me to get it all out. This might be my last chance. In the coming hours, I might really be out of my mind, unable to string two words together, to make her _understand._

"I was Reaped and it was the best thing that has ever happened to me because I—"

Katniss' hand presses over my mouth, her expression horrified. "No. Stop."

I twist away from her touch even though I've craved it for as long as I can remember: I can't give in. This is too important. I have to tell her. "Because all that fear – everything that had been holding me back from just _talking_ to you when we were kids – it got left behind in Twelve. As soon as I set foot on that train, I was free, and I could be _me._ And I could see _you_ – the _real_ you and not that girl with two braids instead of one – and I finally got to be your friend and I got to love you for who you are and I will never regret that. Not a moment of any of it."

She blinks twice in quick succession and her lashes clump with the wetness of tears that she won't allow to fall. It's so Katniss. I smile. I'm so proud of her.

I don't encounter any resistance when I grasp her fingers which still hover in the air. I bring our clasped hands to my chest and press her knuckles to my jacket, over my heart. "Thank you, Katniss, for everything you've given me."

Her mouth moves, but no sound emerges. It makes me ache to watch her struggle to speak. I know her strength doesn't lie in words.

I shake my head and rub her fingers with mine. Her hand shifts until her palm is pressed to my chest, the other rests on her thigh, the forgotten berries still being warmed in her palm.

"It's okay," I whisper.

"No," she coughs.

She's right. It's isn't. None of this is okay. For once, I wish she'd let me lie to her, to myself. I'm good at lying. I can do that much for her, but she won't let me. She's stubborn, but I'm persistent. I interlace our fingers. "It will be."

When she looks away, I study her lips – they look so soft and I remember how warm they'd felt against my cheek. I lovingly memorize her leaf and twig tangled braid – her hair had smelled so good back on that window ledge, had been like silk against my face. I'm glad I have those memories.

"You—" Her voice breaks and she has to stop and take a deep breath before trying again. "You have to eat something."

Because I would rather die than watch her battle more tears, I relent. "Okay."

She feeds me. She helps me sit up so I can drink. By then it's nearly dark. There's just enough light to see by when I stretch out my right arm to her in invitation. "Katniss?"

"I'm tired," she admits, giving me the opening I'd been hoping for.

"Then come here."

She curls up against my side, her head on my shoulder and hand on my chest. My fingers curl around her arm and I sigh. My leg throbs and burns and it is agony in the dark with nothing for my eyes to see, nothing to focus on for a distraction. I wince and sometimes my breath catches. I know Katniss is awake because she pats my chest whenever I choke back a whimper. She leans against me, trusts me, keeps me warm.

I'm not as happy as I'd been on that window ledge back in the Capitol. It's entirely possible that I'm happier.

Until the anthem plays and I remember the cannons today. Two of them. I feel the shudder that wracks Katniss' frame and I recall the second backpack, the one she'd gotten the berries from. I suddenly know where I'd seen it before. It used to be Rue's.

I bring my other arm up and loop it around her, hold her tighter. I think I know who one of those cannon blasts had been for now. I'm sure of it when I hear her whisper an apology in the darkness.

"I couldn't save her." She mouths the words. They are little more than puffs of breath against my jaw. No microphone could possibly catch something that is more thought than sound; they are just for me.

"I've got you," I tell her, forgive her. I press my cheek to hers, bring my lips so close to her ear that they brush her skin. "I know you did everything you could for her. She knows it, too."

Katniss shifts and presses her face fully against my shoulder. I reach for the hood of her jacket and bring it up to cover her so she can grieve in some measure of privacy. She sobs once. Her fingers curl, holding onto me, and I cradle her head in my hand, massaging her braid through the heat reflective fabric.

"I've got you," I say again, and then I let my own tears fall.

I'm not sure which of us exhausts themselves first, who cries the last tear or tumbles first into slumber. I only know that I wake in the morning to the feel of her fingers combing through my grimy hair. I shift, leaning into her touch before I can think twice about it, and she pulls away.

I listen to the slosh of water in a familiar container and sigh. She's going to make me drink and eat again. I really hope she doesn't expect me to be all that enthusiastic about it.

"Hey," I say, opening my eyes. I try to blink them into focus but a persistent haze surrounds me. I guess this means my fever is still going strong.

"Hey," she answers, crouching behind me and helping me sit up. I hate how weak and shaky I feel, how my body is one massive searing ache. I just want to give up, give in, and accept eternal rest. But I can't hate how her inner thigh feels against my back where she braces me upright. Nor can I hate how she gently wipes the escaped droplets of water from my chin as I drink, preventing them from trickling down my neck and making me shiver.

"You're good at this," I tell her. "Care-taking. Care-giving." Yes, that last one sounds right.

"No, I'm not. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I've seen my mother and Prim with patients. Sometimes."

Ah, yes. Mrs. Everdeen is the Seam's midwife and healer. I've never been to see her. My dad usually calls the Everners at the apothecary's shop when my brothers and I get sick. It surprises me that Prim – who'd screamed so shrilly at the Reaping – takes after her mother. Katniss' little sister had seemed so delicate. Being a healer is not for people who are weak of heart or stomach.

"Actually, it was all I could do not to throw up when I saw your leg," Katniss admits and I chuckle weakly.

"I know exactly what you mean." It makes me want to puke, too.

"You're gonna be okay," Katniss suddenly says. "But you have to eat."

I groan. "Again?"

"Yup. Again."

She pokes berry after berry into my mouth. I don't have the energy to chew them so some I swallow whole. The ones that are almost overripe I manage to squash with my tongue first. I focus on the feel of Katniss' leg against my back, her arms around my shoulders, her jaw pressed against my temple. I want to help her so badly – I know I'm heavy – but my arms tremble so much that I can't even trust my hands to stay in my lap. I think my problem is worse than simple blood loss, but I have more immediate concerns to worry about.

"Enough," I gasp as my stomach rolls and wiggles. One more berry and they'll all be coming right back up.

She doesn't argue with me.

"Wait," I add when she shifts as if to crawl out from behind me. "I need to…" I gesture with my hand toward my trouser fly.

"Oh."

"But I don't think I can leave the cave." The very thought of standing up makes me want to die. Or cry. Or scream. All of the above, really.

"Um, I don't have anything," she admits. From the angle of her jaw, I know she's looking at the backpacks, recalling their contents. "There's just the one water bottle."

Well, that's not going to work. "Can you dig a trough or something?" I suggest. It's not ideal, but my bladder is about to explode and our options are limited.

"Yeah. Where do you need it?"

I tap the earth on my right side, near my hip.

"I'm going to lay you back down for a bit," she warns me.

"Okay."

A few minutes later, the trough is dug and Katniss is sitting with her back pressed against mine, bracing me up on my side while I utilize the, er, facilities. The cave quickly smells of urine, and it makes me gag. I manage to get myself zipped back up, but I fail at pushing the dirt back into the pit. Using the large, sharp rock she'd recruited to act as a spade, Katniss fills it in.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. This is so embarrassing, and yet I know I'm only feeling a fraction of it right now. Thank God I'm dying or the humiliation would kill me.

My back aches and my skin burns and my leg feels like it's in the process of rotting off, but I try to stay positive. "I bet Prim's really proud of you," I mumble. "No puking, no screaming, no panicking. You're a pro with the invalid."

She doesn't laugh. Okay, maybe that hadn't been one of my better jokes.

"I hate this," she hisses softly. "I don't know what to do for you!"

"Hey." I force my eyes open – when had I closed them? – and gesture her closer. When she lies down next to me, her head resting on my shoulder again, I sigh happily. "You're doing it. This is perfect."

"It's not enough."

I smile weakly. "It's all I need."

"What you need is—"

And then a booming voice cuts across her protest. The head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, is making an announcement.

Katniss sits up, tilting her right ear toward the cave entrance.

"Attention, tributes, attention." He pauses. I hold my breath so I can focus. This could be important. "The rules requiring a single victor have been… suspended. From now on, two may be crowned if both originate from the same district. This will be the only announcement."

What?

I'm… really confused. Did I just hear what I think I just heard? I must have because the defeat melts from Katniss' expression. Her jaw firms and her eyes harden. She reaches for me and braces her hands on my shoulders. Her entire being radiates with urgency.

"I can get you out of here. Today."

She scrambles out of my arms and I don't really understand what she's trying to do until her hand closes around her bow. I lunge for the quiver of arrows before she can sling it over her shoulder.

"No! Don't!" My heart is beating itself against my ribs because I understand now. Katniss and I, we can go home once everyone else in the arena is dead. I don't know who all is left, and I don't care. "I can't let you do this."

"Why not?" she demands. "You were prepared to do the same for me, weren't you?"

"That's different!"

"How is it different?"

"It was never my intention to have to live with myself afterwards!" I close my eyes as black spots begin to dance and swirl like an oil slick at the edge of my vision. Oh. Oh, crap. I think I need to calm down. The quiver is still clutched in my hand and I focus my attention on that. If I have the arrows, then she can't go. She can't risk her life. She can't get hurt. She can't leave me.

"Peeta," she replies softly, "I have to do this."

"No. Don't try and save me again. I'm not worth it."

"Stop."

It's not a shout. That's probably why I dare to open my eyes. My mother shouts, screeches, shrieks. Derides, insults, and belittles. Katniss gasps, whispers, rasps out her anger and pain. Her touch might be rough at times, but never hurtful. They are nothing alike, my mother and Katniss. How stupid of me to have ever entertained the thought. In many ways, they are opposites. Most notably, Katniss loves. She burns with it, burns to protect the people she loves.

She's trying to protect me.

I'm dimly aware of what that implies, but I can't really sort it out. All I know is— "You're not going out there and risking your life for me!"

"You're not going to last much longer in here if I don't!"

"Then let me die! That was always the plan!"

"I'm not sitting here, waiting around for you to—to—" She bares her teeth. Snarls. "I'm _not_ letting you go."

She grapples with me for the quiver. I don't let her have it. "But at what cost, Katniss? At what cost to you? What kind of girl is going to make it home to Prim?" That had almost sounded logical.

A strangled sound emerges from her throat. "I owe you this much!"

Oh, God. She buries so much inside that I can understand now why she shows so little to the world. Her every thought, every utterance is a weapon. She is killing me with every single thing she says.

"Katniss," I rally, frantically grasping for one of my slippery thoughts. "This is not your fault. But if you go out there, if you kill them, _that_ will be. If I let you go, it'll be my fault, too." I cautiously shake my head, wary of passing out and allowing the arrows to slip through my fingers. She'd be gone in a heartbeat. "I refuse."

"I don't need your permission!"

Right. Okay. Time for the big guns. "I didn't go through all of this so you could run out there and get yourself killed!"

"I can take care of myself."

"Until the Gamemakers push a button and obliterate you." She pauses. Ah. She'd forgotten about those bastards' sadistic tendencies. This moment of uncertainty is my chance to turn her away from her mad plan once and for all.

I soften my tone. "Don't go. Stay. Please." Begging. I've never tried this on her before. I hold my breath, praying it'll work.

It doesn't. "Let go of the arrows, Peeta."

Goddamn it! Why is she—? What can't she just—? "Why are you doing this?"

I want to roar the words. Instead, they come out in a tortured whisper. I glower at her through my brows, chin against my chest. I'm too weak to even lift my head and meet her angry glare head-on, but I'm not letting her go.

She freezes. Her lips part. Her breath comes in soft gasps. I can't read the look in her eyes, but I sense that I should be wary of it. This is new and I don't know what it means or what kind of consequences it might translate into. She freezes and so do I.

A sudden, metallic clatter bounces off of the cavern walls and then her hand is on my chest. I tense, waiting for her to push me back, but she doesn't push. She leans over me, tilts her head down, and slants her mouth against mine.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

Is this real?

I start to ask, but then I get distracted by her lips moving against mine, pressing, meshing, clinging. Katniss is kissing me.

I want to enjoy this. I've waited so long for it. I need to savor it, but I can't. My head is pounding and everything hurts. My lips are still chapped and raw and I can't even hold her in my arms.

Why the hell did she wait until I was dying?

_Why?_

I'm so furious I could just howl. But as she slowly pulls away, my anger fizzles into nothing. I go back to gasping, to wide-eyed gaping, to wondering if it was real, if this is real, if she—

She hovers over me, hesitates. It must have been real. It must have been. Katniss never hesitates.

I take my chance, press my advantage with a soft whisper, "Now there's no way I'm letting you go."

"Peeta…"

"No. Give me one day," I plead. I have no pride now, no shame. "Stay with me." If she really—if she could possibly—if she likes me that much, I need her to stay. This is probably my last day and I will not throw it away by allowing her to risk her life. Tomorrow, I'll be worse, probably unconscious, my brain cooking with fever, so I need her _today._ Today is as guaranteed as a day can get in the arena. Tomorrow is not. "Just give me today. Please. Stay."

A long moment passes and then she lets go of the quiver. "Okay. I'll stay."

* * *

NOTES: I admit that I wondered why, right after the rule change announcement in the book/movie, why Katniss didn't consider running out there and shooting everyone so she and Peeta could go home. I eventually realized that it was because she wasn't THERE yet. You know, in that place where she could acknowledge the lengths she would have to go to in order to survive. Well, she's kinda THERE in this fic. Peeta has made her care about him enough (even though she's not quite ready to admit it or nowhere near ready to deal with it... stubborn Katniss).


	18. The Boy in the Woods

Notes: I ain't gonna lie - I hated the Goat Story in the book. So, some serious rewriting going on in this chapter.

Theme music: "Say (All I Need)" by OneRepublic

* * *

**The Boy in the Woods**

* * *

"Tell me a story," I request softly. My belly is full and warm. It's a pleasant distraction from all the rest of it. I can focus better, although I don't expect that to last. After the announcement and our argument this morning, Katniss had unwrapped my leg and taken a look at the damage. It was worse, hideously worse, but now I can almost ignore the pain. Maybe the soup was medicated? It wouldn't surprise me.

I feel like this moment is the calm before the storm. Might as well make the most of it, right?

Katniss sighs. I know she's still angry, but I can't bring myself to fear her reaction. It's my last day with her. She has reason to be angry, but I know she won't hit me, hate me, call me names. I trust her.

She pets my dirty hair with her left hand, tilts her chin so that her cheek presses against my crown, and echoes my request in a flat tone, as if unsure that she'd heard me correctly. Maybe I'd slurred the words. "A story?"

"I ate the soup and bread Haymitch sent," I remind her. We'd made a deal over it. I eat what she tells me to; she stays and spends the day with me.

"You ate half of it," she grouches.

"And I promise I'll finish it… after you tell me a story." My leg wound flares suddenly and hotly and I grunt, struggling not to crush the fingers of her right hand, which I've captured in both of mine and am even now holding prisoner on my stomach.

For a long moment, she doesn't say anything and the pain fades out. I start breathing again. I gently play with her fingers as she leans her hips against mine, our bodies flush. My neck is cradled in the crook of her elbow and her left hand occasionally rests upon my brow. Sometimes her thumb tickles my ear and her fingers comb through my hair. We're like lovers. I close my eyes. I smile. We are as close to lovers as we'll ever be. She kissed me. She wants me to live. She protects me. She is gentle with me when it counts. Like now.

We're not lovers. We will never be lovers. But it's so near to being real that I can almost forget that it's not.

She relents with a sigh. Her breath cools my forehead. "A story," she muses. "Okay."

I grin up at her, an eager audience of one. Our gazes meet and the tension melts from her face. She looks at me with that warmth again, her scowl nowhere to be seen.

"Okay." She begins, "Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived with her father, mother, and little sister in a small village deep in a dark forest. People were afraid of this forest because it was easy to get lost in it unless you knew your way. Many who wandered from the safety of the road were never seen or heard from again—"

"Wait," I whisper urgently.

"What?"

"Does this story have a happy ending?" Not that I wouldn't listen to anything that Katniss chose to share with me, but I'd like a little warning. We're already playing out a tragedy here in this little cave. Adding to it would be overkill.

She frowns. "Yes, it has a happy ending."

"Oh, okay. It's got a questionable beginning, though." Maybe she hadn't noticed.

Katniss gives me an impatient look. "It builds suspense. Can I continue now?"

"Shutting up."

"One day, an old man in the village became very sick and everyone was afraid because the girl's mother, who was a healer, told them that it was the Terrible Sickness, which – if left untreated – would surely kill the patient."

I frown. "I don't believe that this is a happy story."

"Do you want me to tell you a different one?"

My leg twinges again, but I man-up and grit my teeth until it recedes. Once I relax, I give her question my complete attention.

"What? No!" I huff, "You've started it so now I have to know how it ends."

"Okay, then." She clears her throat and resumes the tale, "The girl's mother used the last of her stores to cure the old man. She needed a very special herb to make the medicine, one that only grew in the dangerous, dark woods, and it was too late in the day to venture out to gather more. So, she decided to set out first thing in the morning to collect the ingredients, and then she went to bed."

I fiddle with Katniss' fingers again to let her know that I haven't spaced out on her. I wouldn't dare space out. Watching her expressions shift as she tells this story is fascinating. I almost don't feel the shuddering and shivering of my body. I do feel how it jars my leg mercilessly, but with the sight of her to distract me, it's bearable.

"But, the next morning, the girl's parents did not come down for breakfast. And when the girl went upstairs, she discovered both her mother and father ill in bed with the Terrible Sickness. She and her sister cared for them as best they could, but their parents became sicker and sicker as the day continued.

"That evening, the girl and her little sister—"

"What are their names?" I interrupt. I can't believe I hadn't thought to ask before now.

"What?"

"The girl and her little sister."

She shrugs awkwardly. "Maybe their names are Girl and Little Sister."

I give her a look out of the corner of my eye. "No, they aren't." I'm enjoying this far more than I probably should. I'm heckling Katniss. _Heckling._

Katniss' lips twitch. She's trying not to smile. She rolls her eyes. "Their names aren't important. Do you want to hear what happens next or not?"

I briefly debate asking if the girl has a long, dark braid that she wears over her shoulder and a pair of expressive, grey eyes. I'll assume she does. Saves time. "Go on, then."

"That evening, the girl and her little sister made a plan to venture into the deep, dark woods to search for the herb that would save their parents' lives."

I clutch her fingers, a sudden shiver making my grip too tight, but she doesn't even cringe. I blurt out, "Wait. Lemme guess. Something bad happens while they're sleeping."

"You are obnoxious," Katniss murmurs a little wonderingly, a little sadly. Her fingers comb through my hair again.

Ah, I love that. I smile stupidly up at her. "But am I _right?"_

"Yes," she admits, humor shining briefly in her eyes. "During the night, the girl's little sister became ill with the Terrible Sickness and, in the morning, the girl had to set out for the woods alone to search for the cure—"

A stabbing pain shoots up my leg all the way to my lower back. The hiss ekes out between my teeth before I can gulp it down. I turn it into a question. "Is this where the unicorn comes in?"

"The… _what?"_

Oh, the look on her face. I wheeze out a chuckle. "The unicorn. I'd feel much better about this story if it had a unicorn."

"There's no unicorn."

"A nymph?"

"No."

"Talking squirrels?"

Katniss sighs heavily. "Peeta…"

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I just think you should know that I'm—" Ouch. Another twinge. "—very concerned about where all this is going."

"Noted. May I get back to the story now?"

I press my lips together and try for an innocent expression.

"At first light, the girl set out for the woods with a satchel and began her search. She walked as far as her legs could take her along the footpath, but she saw no sign of the herb she needed. Hours later, she was exhausted and hungry and she had to head back before dark. She didn't want to give up, but there was nothing more she could do. She turned to make her way home and suddenly there was a little boy standing on the dirt track in front of her."

Katniss pauses, waits for me to interrupt. I grin. "And?"

"The little boy was all alone, but he wasn't sad. He looked happy. His blond hair glowed golden in the fading sunlight and his eyes were bluer than the summer sky. In his hands, he clutched a small, wooden toy. A car. It was well-made and clearly the work of a carpenter."

"This is gonna be important later, isn't it?" I guess, trying to shift to relieve the pressure on my spine without triggering another searing whiplash of—

_Shit, that hurts!_

Okay, so moving was a fail. I settle back down and resign myself to a stiff back. It's the least of my problems, after all.

Katniss pats my chest and answers my question. "Yes. Now, hush."

I do, greatly enjoying how involved Katniss is getting in the story, and I'm loving how she's letting me play a role in the telling of it. I wonder how long it's been since she last did something like this for anyone.

Katniss' husky voice fills the cave and I fall back into the tale, glad to be partly ignorant of the pain if for only a few moments at a time.

"'Hello,' said the girl to the little boy, but he didn't answer. He just smiled. 'What's your name?' she asked, but there was no reply. 'Where are you from? Are you lost?' she asked next, but he didn't say a word. Finally, not holding out much hope but knowing that her family was in great need, the girl told him, 'I'm looking for the herb that cures the Terrible Sickness. Do you know where it is?'"

Katniss runs her hand through my hair again and her voice lowers until she is almost purring, "Can you guess what happened next?"

Her confidential tone makes me flush, and this time I completely forget my aches and fever and chills. Does she have any idea of the effect she has on me? My gaze flickers up to hers. She looks back at me, too direct to be flirting. She really has no idea. "Uh, he led her to it?"

"Yes, he did. He turned and disappeared into the brush, gesturing for her to follow. He led her down a winding deer trail and along a rabbit path until they emerged at the edge of a small meadow. And in that meadow, from one edge to the other, grew a sea of herb plants."

"Oh, good." I exhale in relief. "This is going to be a happy story after all."

"Trust me," Katniss answers and, because I do, I let her tell it.

"The girl was so happy she fell to her knees and began filling her satchel with the stems and leaves of the plants. When she had enough to save her family, she looked up to thank the little boy who had shown her the way. She looked left and right, but she couldn't see him. She called for him, but he didn't appear. As she turned to go, she saw his little toy car resting at the base of a tree."

I resist the urge to shift restlessly. "I'm starting to get another creepy vibe."

Katniss smiles playfully down at me. "I'll protect you."

Heat erupts from my thigh and I grind my molars together to keep quiet. Whatever was in that soup is clearly wearing off, but I can't let it interrupt Katniss' story or our day. Our last day. I tell her, "Okay."

"She couldn't find the boy. It was nearly dark and she had a long way to go to reach her home, so she followed the rabbit path to the deer trail and then made her way to the forest road and hurried back to the village. When she arrived at her home, her parents and sister were still very sick, so she worked all night preparing the medicine for them. In the morning, it was finally ready. They drank their portions and, by the following evening, everyone was well."

"But what about the boy in the woods?" I can feel sweat dewing on my brow. It's only a matter of time before her fingers encounter it and then she'll forget about the story. She'll remember that I'm dying and she'll get angry again because I won't let her risk her life to save mine.

"I'm getting to that part. Be patient."

I am _very _patient.

"Months passed and then it was the day of the yearly market in the town. The town was a long walk from the village, but someone from every family always went to trade their goods and wares with other villagers and the townsfolk. This year, the girl was old enough to go alone, so she took the medicines that her mother had prepared and walked with the others to the town."

"Did they—" I don't finish my question. Katniss' cool fingers press down on my lips. I can't help but smile again even though I want to both tear off my jacket in order to cool my sweating skin and burrow under a mountain of blankets to stop my shivering. At the same time.

"The girl traded the medicines for many things that her family needed and then she set off for home. On the road, however, she came across a boy her age who was trying to pull a cart. The road was muddy in places and the wheels had gotten stuck. She helped him free it and they walked a ways together. As they walked, she studied his blond hair and blue eyes and she felt that he looked familiar but she was sure that they had never met."

Since Katniss' fingers are still hovering over my mouth, I purse my lips and kiss them. There's no way the cameras had caught that. It's our secret from the Capitol. I like that.

Katniss fists her hand and lowers it back to my chest. I immediately grasp it in mine, tracing her fingers and knuckles. I could sketch her hands from memory now, but I won't. My sketching days are done.

"They arrived in the boy's village that evening, and he invited her to rest at his parents' house. They had a hearty supper and the girl was given a comfortable bed in the loft. It was warm and she was happy because she had made a new friend that day, but she couldn't sleep. She rolled over in her bed and glimpsed something deep in the rafters of the house. The girl was curious, so she moved closer."

I revel in the soft timbre of Katniss' voice. I can tell we're getting to the good part of the story. Atop my belly, I rub her fingers again in silent encouragement.

"It was a burlap sack and, inside, was a little boy's vest, a winter coat, and two wooden toy cars. Suddenly, the girl remembered the boy in the forest who had helped her. He'd had a little toy car like these. And he'd looked a lot like her new friend. She was sure that they must be brothers, but she hadn't seen the little boy anywhere in the house.

"The next morning, her new friend offered to walk her to her village, which was a few hours further along the road, and as they passed through the forest, she asked him about his little brother.

"'My brother?' the boy answered, confused.

"'Yes,' said the girl. 'I think I met him in the woods two seasons ago. He helped me.'

"'That's not possible,' the boy told her, and she got angry because he didn't believe her. So she showed him the way to the woodland road in the deep dark woods. She found the deer trail and the rabbit path. When they stopped in the clearing, it was just as she remembered: herbs from edge to edge and there by a nearby tree was a little wooden car.

"Only, it looked very old and worn now. It was dirty and grey. The paint had peeled off and there were many cracks. The boy saw the toy car and he began to cry."

I'm shivering constantly now. Katniss breaks off from the story and reaches across my chest. She rubs her right hand up and down my left arm to warm me, to anchor me. She continues narrating, though, and I cling to the sound of her voice.

"You see, ten years ago, his brother ran off into the dark woods to play and never came home. That toy car had been his favorite, made by his grandfather, a carpenter."

"Ah, so it was important," I declare, my teeth chattering briefly. I squeeze my eyes shut as my stomach clenches and rolls. I focus on her words instead of the too-warm feeling of upwardly creeping bile.

"Yes. Suddenly, the girl understood why it was impossible for her to have met her friend's brother... because it was his spirit she'd seen that day. It was his spirit who had helped her save her family."

I hold my breath until my stomach settles and I wait for the ending. I know there must be more. Katniss promised that this would end happily. She waits until I manage to relax back against the sleeping bag again.

"The road through the deep dark forest is still there," Katniss tells me, "but now many people use it. They venture to the meadow where the special herb grows and there they find a humble cottage. The grandson of a carpenter lives there now with his wife from the nearby village, and they answer every knock on their door, giving the life-saving herb to all who need it."

A long moment of silence settles in the cave. I'm still holding my breath. Slowly, Katniss wipes the sweat from my brow. I feel cold. I feel hot. I don't want to give this moment up. I don't think I can last much longer.

"The end."

I guardedly let out the deep breath I'd been hoarding and I study the grey of Katniss' eyes. I know I should smile for her – she'd told me a story, after all, just like I'd asked – but I'm completely dazed and a little confused. The haze of fever is back for Round Two and the details of the story are beginning to slip through my grasp. All I can really discern is a sense of similarity between this story and ours – hers and mine – five years ago, but instead of bread, there are medicinal herbs; her father lives on and my family…

What was that about my family? I'm not sure, but something wasn't right. I do remember one thing, though. One thing that has me a bit muddled. I feel so stupid. I know I should know this, but I just can't figure it out. I have to ask.

"Katniss?"

"Hm?"

"Which boy am I?"

She smiles softly. "You are the boy in the woods who gives hope to people."

"Oh. Okay." This time, my chest unknots enough for me to give her a smile.

It's not until I've finished the soup and bread from the parachute Haymitch had sent and I'm lying down – utterly spent and exhausted from that small exertion – with Katniss pressed against my right side that I fight my way into a brief moment of clarity: I realize that she never did answer my question. I still don't know which boy I am, if I'm real or just a ghost.

* * *

Do I feel bad about cutting out the Goat Man? No. No, I don't.


	19. The Feast (Katniss POV)

Theme music: "Have You Got It In You?" by Imogene Heap

* * *

**The Feast (Katniss POV)**

* * *

The forest is dark, silent, and still. There is no wind. There are no stars twinkling through the canopy. There is only darkness.

_Boom!_

The cannon!

My heart lurches into my mouth and I choke. I stumble forward, looking up to the night sky, waiting for the face to appear. Dreading it. The Fallen.

It is a boy. District Twelve.

_No! Peeta!_

It can't be. It can't!

I take a step back. I can run from this. If I run, then it won't be true. It can't be true. I step back and my heel catches on something. A tree root or a moss-covered rock or…

A body.

I turn. I look. I see—

Peeta, sprawled on the forest floor, eyes glassy, with an arrow in the center of his chest.

_NO!_

I sit up, pawing at the body beside mine. "Peeta!" My voice is squeezed down to almost nothing I'm so terrified. But he is here and there is no arrow in his chest. He is still warm, alive…

…dying.

The dream fades but the fear remains. The terror. Peeta is dying. He doesn't even stir despite the shove I'd given him. He doesn't shift at the feel of my hands searching roughly over his chest. I was so careful all day not to bump him and make his leg hurt worse, but now my hands are wrapped around his arms, frozen in mid-shake. I move one to his brow. He is burning with fever. Beneath my thumb, his eyelashes don't lift, don't flutter, don't twitch.

I remember how he'd looked in the late afternoon light today: he'd been far too pale, his cheeks sunken. He'd shivered constantly even though I'd practically lain on top of him to keep him warm, to hold him steady. His skin had been alternately burning to the touch and soaked in sweat. And he's thin. Thinner than the boy I'd sat with on the window ledge back in the Capitol. He's lost too much weight. He's lost weight and I'm losing him.

I can't. I can't go home without him. I can't leave him here. I can't.

I shouldn't have given in and stayed with him today. I should have ignored his logic and warnings. I should have looked away from his blue eyes. I should have gone out there and ended the Games. I should have saved him.

_Why hadn't you?_

Because I am selfish. I'd wanted today with him. Just one day. I'd never had Peeta all to myself for a whole day and he'd been right: how did I know I wouldn't be killed out there? I might have a fighting chance against the other tributes, but if the Gamemakers want me dead, there's no way I'll make it back to this cave to say goodbye.

And now it doesn't matter. I can't go back to Twelve after this. I'll go out there, and I'll fight, but I don't want to win. There is no winning if Peeta dies.

I exhale and lower my head to the center of his chest. I can hear his heartbeat if I turn and press my ear to his jacket. I have to use my right one. I haven't been able to hear anything out of the left side since the land mines exploded.

I am half a hunter now. It terrifies me almost as much as Peeta dying.

I have to save him. I have to do something to get sponsors so Haymitch can send the medicine he needs.

_Think!_ I can do this. I can come up with a plan. Gale and I have come up with great plans before, this is no different. But it is. Because this time I'm trying to save a life, not take it.

I don't know what to do.

I have to save him because he has saved me. I do not know how much of me there would still be left if he hadn't stuck by me. Whatever I am now – however much of the real me is left – is because of him. I refuse to abandon him, to let him fade away. I need a plan.

Distance will help. I can't think in the darkness of the cave, in this stale air with death leering at Peeta over my shoulder, breathing down my neck. I need the peace and pulse of the woods. I always see things more clearly in the forest and I need that now. All I can see and smell and feel is Peeta: his deepening illness and my mounting fear.

I had watched him struggle all day, fighting the inevitable. The tremors had made him wince. I'd heard his breath catch with every flare of pain. I'd held onto him. I don't even know if it had helped at all. He'd seemed so out of his mind at times that I wasn't even sure if he could remember why he was so sick.

I roll away, collecting my bow and sheath of arrows out of habit, and climb up to the mouth of the cave. It's still light out, but only barely. The sun has set and fading orange light glows through the forest canopy. Orange. Peeta's favorite color.

My fisted hands strike my thighs. I have so much rage inside me, but I am so weak. The force of the blows won't even result in bruises. I am powerless. They've taken everything from me, everything that's mine – my home, my family, the only life I've ever known – and now they're taking Peeta, who is not mine, not really, but I...

Maybe I should beg. Is that what the Capitol wants to see? A girl on fire begging for the life of her boy?

My mouth is open, the words are forming, but then—

"Attention, tributes, attention."

Another announcement from Seneca Crane? Twice in the same day? What the hell is going on?

"Commencing at sunrise, there will be a feast tomorrow at the Cornucopia. This will be no ordinary occasion. Each of you needs something... desperately, and we plan to be _generous _hosts."

It takes a moment to soak in, but when it does—

_His medicine!_

I hold my breath, certain that any moment now Peeta will call my name, call me back to his side – and I will go because I can deny him nothing, not anymore – and he will make me promise not to go, not to save him. I can't make that promise again. It will kill whatever is left of me. When minutes pass and no sound whispers out from the depths of the cave, I lean back against the rocks and just breathe.

I can do this. I can get his medicine. I can save him, but I'll need a plan.

I crawl soundlessly back to our hiding place and begin to gather my things. I have to work slowly in the dark, carefully. I can't afford to have Peeta wake now. I leave the water for him – I have no interest in carrying anything that bulky. Besides, I'm not going far. I can make it a few hours without water. After which, I'll either be back here, or I'll be dead.

The berries are laid out near his left hand. I dig another trench near his waist in case he needs it. I empty Rue's backpack of everything except the remains of the groosling and some wire. I'll need to hunt soon. Maybe I'll set some snares on the way. Maybe.

I put Rue's extra pair of socks in my pocket. I'll use them as mittens later, when the temperature falls. I'm not sure if Peeta has noticed, but the nights have been getting colder. Almost freezing. I slide the knife into my belt and sweep my hand out in search of my bow. Because I can't see anything, I miscalculate and my fingers end up brushing something else. It's hard and cold. Plastic.

The sunglasses from Rue's pack.

Sunglasses. Of all the useless—

I pause with them in my hand. I'm looking down at them in the dark and… I can see my fingers _through _the lenses. What?

I unfold the ear pieces and slide the glasses onto my face… and freeze with realization.

These aren't sunglasses! They're for night vision.

I survey the cave, my smile so wide my cheeks hurt. This is just what I need. With these, I can hunt at night. I can head to the meadow tonight and wait for the others to show up for the Feast, take them down one by one just before dawn.

I can save Peeta.

_But at what cost, Katniss?_

I shake my head. I can't think about that now. My goal is to help Peeta, so that's what I'll do. I crawl over to him, study him in his sleep. Everything looks slightly red through the lenses, but I don't mind. I can see him, touch his face carefully. I can promise to come back. I can tell him that I'm not letting him go. I can watch his lips part and a brief frown furrow his brow. I wish it were a smile instead. Peeta has such an irresistible smile. I know. I've tried not to give in to it time and time again. I've failed more often than not.

"Stay alive," I whisper to him in the darkness, petting his matted hair. "Wait for me."

He looks cold, but I can't both warm him and save him. I have to choose. So I do.

I'm ready to go, but I hesitate. Surely there's something I can do for the sponsors? If I don't make it back, if the Gamemakers kill me, Peeta will need help. I crouch over him, lean down, and press a lingering kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his lips. "You're the best of us." He doesn't twitch at my words. I wish he would hear them. These words are for him, not Panem. "You have to live."

They are very nearly Rue's last words to me: _"You have to win."_

I touch my lips to his yet again, brush his cheek with my fingers, and then I force myself to leave. The sooner I get moving in the direction of the Cornucopia, the better prepared I'll be for ending this.

Walking manages to keep me warm for a while. It's the middle of the night before I have to remove the arrow I'd nocked from the string, slide it back in the quiver, shoulder my bow, and dig out the socks from my jacket pocket. Using the knife, I carefully slice holes in the weave for my fingertips. They are not the best gloves, but they are better than nothing and I can't walk around the forest without an arrow at the ready.

I reach my destination well before dawn and begin slowly skirting the meadow. I'm inching my way along in silence when I hear something from the left. I pause, tilt my right ear in that direction, and wait.

A soft, cautiously placed footstep whispers through the forest. I crouch down, draw back my arrow, and breathe calmly. This is my chance. I can kill one. Peeta will be that much closer to going home. Is it Cato or Clove? Or could it be Thresh? He's still alive, isn't he?

It's none of those. It is the girl from Five. The wily, arrogant, clever girl with the red hair. Foxface.

I prepare to release the arrow, but I take a moment and think. If I kill her now, the cannon will sound and the others will hear. They'll be even more hesitant to enter the meadow tomorrow and I'll have lost my advantage. I'll have to stalk them through the trees and that will take time. The Gamemakers might take back the items they promised if they aren't collected by a certain time. Besides, every moment I spend hunting the others after dawn is a moment during which Peeta inches closer to death. At what point will the medicine be useless?

I can't take that chance.

Foxface creeps closer to the edge of the meadow, glancing all around her even though it's dark and she isn't wearing night vision glasses like I am. I watch her and I think…

She's fast. She's sly. She's not an immediate threat to the other tributes. They probably won't attack her. Cato and Clove will wait for me or Thresh. This girl is probably the only one who has a chance of making it out of the Feast without a confrontation.

I can use that.

My thoughts race. I try and think like Peeta. He's good with people. What would he do in this situation?

Well, he'd smile and say hi, but that's not going to work for me. He'd offer to share his food or matches with her. Again, not an option. But maybe I can offer her something just as useful…

"Hey, Five," I call softly. She is only about ten feet away. I won't miss at this distance. "It's Katniss. From Twelve."

"What do you want?" She is braced to flee. She doesn't know I have an arrow pointed at her chest.

"An alliance. For the Feast." I stand up and take a small step toward her. Her gaze drops to the weapon in my hands. The moonlight reflects off of the metal.

Her eyes widen. She leans back before she can stop herself. "Why?"

"Because you're clever. You have a plan for getting your pack from the Gamemakers, don't you? But you've still got to go out there and get it. The others will see you. It's risky."

"What are you proposing?"

I gesture minutely with the bow. "I'll cover you until you're out of the clearing _if_ you pick up mine, too."

She considers this carefully. I can see her weighing all of her options. I could kill her now, but then I'd have to go out there myself. I could kill her as she crosses the field, but I'd still be no closer to getting what I need. I could kill her once she reaches the safety of the forest… but only if I catch her. I know she's not going to give me that opportunity. If she does what I ask, she'll probably drop Peeta's medicine just inside the line of trees, as far from my position as possible, and I'll still have to go after it, but she'll have time to escape into the woods.

Slowly, she nods. "All right. I'll pick up yours and mine."

"And I'll make sure you get out of there alive."

"Deal."

We don't shake on it. She continues on her way and I watch her creep out across the field and take shelter in the Cornucopia. I was right: she does have a good plan. At first light, she'll dart out and be gone before anyone has the chance to react. And, because they won't see her as much of a threat, they'll let her go. Maybe they'll even assume she's trying to hinder Peeta and me by taking our pack. I doubt anyone would believe she and I have made an alliance, especially after the rule change yesterday morning.

Yesterday morning. I have to force myself not to think about it. I will not think about the stink and pus of Peeta's wound or our argument before that… or the kiss.

I shouldn't have kissed him.

But how else was I going to get him to shut up?

_You could have hit him._

No. No, I couldn't have done that. There is no force on this earth that would make me hurt him. He has been hurt too many times by people who are supposed to care about him.

I climb the tree that Rue had shown me, huddling in the branches as I survey the clearing. Foxface might not be the only one thinking about taking up a position in or near the Cornucopia before dawn. I settle down to wait.

It is freezing and I'm glad for the extra pair of socks on my hands, but they barely keep back the biting chill. I'm shivering, but I keep watch. I cannot trust Foxface to do anything other than act in her own interest. At least the cold keeps me awake. That and my mostly empty stomach. I don't reach for my pack. Any attempt to alleviate my discomfort will increase the likelihood of me falling asleep.

I am not as thankful for the darkness. I have far too much time to think. I think of Rue, who died in my arms as I sang to her. I think of Marvel: I'd killed him without a second thought. I'd also killed Glimmer and the girl from Four. The boy from Three was killed as a direct result of my actions even though Cato will be credited with his death. And the boy I'd grappled with at the bloodbath – Clove had killed him, but he wouldn't be dead at all if I hadn't stumbled and fallen back just then and pulled him into the path of her knife.

Peeta is right. If I set out to kill every single tribute left, the girl who returns to Twelve won't be the same as the one who left. I'm already different. I've seen battle. I've dared to ignore their rules. I've risked my life. I've trusted near-strangers. I've killed people. I've kissed a boy.

I kissed Peeta.

I really, really don't know what to think about that except that those soft kisses to the back of my hand must have driven me insane. I don't like Peeta like that. I don't like anyone like that. I can't. I won't. Love, marriage, kids… no. Absolutely not. Kids can be reaped and love can tear out your soul. I won't open myself up to that.

But it's so easy to forget when I'm around Peeta. I remember his warmth that last night in the Capitol suite. I'd been able to remember having that closeness with my father and, for the first time since his death, the memory alone hadn't pushed me further and deeper into myself. Peeta gave me that, sheltering me from the worst of it so I could remember the good things, the things I shouldn't ever forget.

I shift from my current seat in the tree and locate another sturdy bough, just for something to do, just to keep my legs from going numb and useless.

Useless. People back home probably think that about Peeta, but it's not true. He helped me after I dropped the tracker jacker nest. He hid me while I recovered. He put these weapons in my hands. But, most of all, he persuaded me not to lose myself. He stopped me from becoming another piece in their Games, a killer.

I might still kill before all of this is over, but Peeta's right. I can't hunt people. I can only protect us from them. I'd known that back in the Capitol. I'd all but admitted it to him the night before the Games, but this morning I'd forgotten it. So easily. But not Peeta. Peeta had remembered for me.

I will never stop owing him. First for my life, for Prim's life and my mother's life. And now for my soul.

Sighing, I think back to the story I'd told him. It had been based on one that was Prim's favorite. Our father had told us stories before he'd died. Happy stories about honor and love and perfect rewards. When Peeta had asked to hear one, I hadn't been able to bring myself to tell him a tale with a happily-ever-after ending. One where the boy and girl fall in love and live out the rest of their days in peace, surrounded by healthy children. How could I tell him something like that knowing that he was _dying in my arms?_ That he would _never know that life for himself?_

He'd needed a story about hope, about how hope transcends the boundary between life and death. I may not put much stock in love, but I am a student of hope. Peeta had been my teacher. It had only seemed right to repay that.

My thoughts revolve until dawn, circling from the memory of that kiss – his lips had been far too warm and dry, chapped – to the way he'd struggled, glassy-eyed to follow along with the story I'd told him – he'd gotten weaker and more delirious by the minute – to his urgent confession…

_"I got to love you and I will never regret that."_

Does he really? Or had that been just another play on words for sponsors? Or maybe the fever had made him say those things? My heart weighs like a stone in my chest. I hope for Peeta's sake that he doesn't love me. Nothing good could come of it. I can give him my trust. I can protect him. I can be his friend, his partner here in the arena. I cannot do more than that. I know my limits.

I accept them.

Dawn comes reluctantly. The sun rises with the same luxurious speed that icicles enjoy as they melt in a slow thaw. I tuck away my night vision glasses and makeshift gloves, warm my hands with my breath, and load my bow. I watch the field instead of the ground in front of the Cornucopia. I've seen it before in the Game recaps: the earth will open and a table will rise out. I glance at it only to confirm the number of packs.

There are five.

What? Who have I forgotten?

From this distance, I can see packs with the number two, four, five, eleven, and twelve on them.

Four. The boy from Four must still be alive.

I wonder why he hadn't joined up with the Careers while his district partner had. Not that it matters.

A flash of motion at the mouth of the Cornucopia draws my gaze. Foxface lunges for her pack and mine – _Peeta's_ – and then she's racing with high steps through the tall grass and over the broken ground toward the far side of the clearing.

I was right about everyone letting her go. She's not a threat to them. They have bigger problems to—

And then a dark streak of motion lunges from the forest. Cato or the boy from Four, I don't know. He's only twenty yards from Foxface and closing in at an angle. She hasn't seen him yet, but he'll reach her before she makes it to the trees.

I breathe out.

I sight.

I release the arrow.

At this distance and up in a tree, I can't be completely confident of my aim, so I nock another before the first reaches him.

But reach him it does. It lodges in his back and he stumbles, gurgling loud enough for the echo to bounce back to me. Foxface twitches, sees him fall to his knees only a few paces away. She dives for the forest and disappears amongst the trees.

My part is done.

The cannon booms once and then all is silent.

All I have to do is retrieve the pack, and if I have to hunt her down for it, I will not be nearly as nice as I had been last night.

I swing down from branch to bough as quickly as I dare, eager to locate Peeta's medicine before someone else finds either it or Foxface. Keeping quiet as I hurry is almost impossible, but I have to manage it or I won't have to worry about the Gamemakers doing me in. It'll be Cato's sword or Clove's knife. Or maybe Thresh with his huge, bare hands.

Weaving through the woods, I keep my next arrow strung and cling to the early morning shadows as much as I can. My left side faces the clearing and I _really _don't like that, but my only other option is to circle around even further so I can make a pass back this way. I'm pretty sure I don't have that kind of time.

_Peeta _doesn't have that kind of time.

I hurry.

Up ahead, I glimpse the light grey material of a pack resting on the forest floor. I can even make out the number "12" on it. Foxface is nowhere to be seen. True to form, she's probably scampered off back to her den, certain that I'll let her go. She's right. I have what I came for.

I grip the bow tightly and squeeze the shaft of the arrow between the fingers of the same hand, leaving my right hand free. I crouch beside a tree, listening intently. When I'm sure I'm not being watched, I dive for the pack, grabbing it and pivoting on the balls of my feet, ready to dash back the way I'd come.

I'm not given the chance. I see Clove, her arm outstretched, a blur spinning toward my head. I flinch back, but I don't move fast enough. The blade slices against my forehead, skipping off into the brush.

I have to drop Peeta's medicine in order to get a shot off. _I have to._

I can't. I don't.

I try to run instead.

Cato steps into my path. No options left.

He's five or six yards ahead, sword in hand. Clove is the greater threat right now.

I drop the bag, plant my feet over it, turn-crouch-fire! Clove is too close. I've lost the element of surprise and then she's on me. I can hear Cato laughing as Clove wrestles my arms to the ground. I buck her off and we roll. Cato enjoys the show. I end up flat on my back again, arm raised to block the blade of a hunting knife. My other wrist is trapped beneath Clove's knee.

I twist my blocking arm around, grab for her wrist, scramble for leverage.

A sword edge at my throat.

"You Twelves." He sounds exasperated. "Stop being so damn difficult."

With the blade poised at my throat, I don't have much of a choice. I still.

Clove smiles. "Thanks, but I can take it from here."

"I get to watch." His smug tone is almost enough to make me forget about the sword at my throat.

My breath hisses through my teeth. Cato takes a step back. Clove leans over me. I'm completely pinned now. She has my other arm buried beneath her boot tread. The edge of her knife traces the line of my cheek. I feel suddenly dizzy. The left side of my face is wet. Sticky. Bloody.

"Where's Lover Boy?" Clove asks, but by the look of glee on her face I can tell she already knows. He isn't here. He isn't anywhere near here or in any condition to help me. She doesn't take her eyes off me as she nods toward the dropped pack. "You were gonna help him, right?"

_Right after I kill you._

"It's too bad he's gonna die. Just like your little friend. What was her name? Your little friend?"

I growl at her, teeth bared against the pain of my heart shattering in my chest. I'd failed Rue. I couldn't keep her safe. I'd lost Peeta's friend. I'd failed him.

But I am not going to let him die!

Cato shifts. For a moment, I think he's getting bored with the psychological torture, but then he suddenly straightens. The sword flashes in the sunlight. "Shit! Take her Clove!"

I hear his footsteps pounding out of the woods and toward the Cornucopia.

What—Thresh?

It doesn't matter. Clove flinches back irritably, her gaze following her district partner's charge into the clearing.

This is my chance. I take it. I duck around the knife and sink my teeth into Clove's hand. I feel more bone than muscle and bite harder. She screams, rears back. I use her weight on my arms to pull myself up, ignoring how my skin stretches under the pressure, and ram my forehead into hers.

Damn it, that hurts.

The pain turns to fury and I yank my arm out from under her knee, swinging my fist up and catching her in the side of the face. Then I'm kicking free of her, not caring what I smash or step on in my bid for freedom.

I reach for the knife in my belt. Clove crashes into me, our blade arms tangling, catching on the fabric of our jackets. I kick my legs, twist my hips, pushing at her chin to pry her off of me but she's heavy and my body is weak after a sleepless night.

I can't do this.

_You have to. For Peeta._

I try. I strain against the weight of her arm pinning me down. I push and writhe and grunt. And then—

My strength gives out and I flop back onto the ground, my skull banging into a root. Her arm comes down. The knife. As my eyes roll up into my head, I manage to jerk to the side. Her blade stabs into the flesh of the tree. I feel myself go limp. Dizzy. I've lost too much blood.

I dimly hear Clove swear as she works the knife out of the root beside my head. She won't miss next time. I have to stop her. I have to get back to Peeta.

_Peeta._

He has to live. _He has to._

I summon my strength, claw and grasp at the fraying threads of consciousness. I open my eyes and—

Clove's body jerks. Her mouth falls open on a sudden gasp. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand fall away from the knife.

What?

She slumps, listing to the side, and I meet a pair of wide eyes over her shoulder.

Foxface.

With a glance, I take it all in: the knife buried in Clove's back, Foxface's pale fingers still clutching the handle, the startled look on her face. Either she hadn't believed she could really kill someone or she'd thought I was already dead.

I shove Clove's body off of me just as my fingers rediscover my own knife. I'm armed. Foxface isn't. In the next instant, she's gone, sprinting off into the depths of the forest. I scramble for Peeta's medicine, my bow – I'd lost an arrow, but there's no time to look for it.

The cannon sounds.

I see a figure sprinting through the field, toward or away from me, I don't know. I don't want to know. I run.

I have Peeta's medicine. I have my bow, my knife. There are some arrows in my quiver. The entire pack – medicine and whatever else – gets stuffed inside my jacket. The bow goes over my shoulder and the knife in my belt. I yank the makeshift gloves from my pockets, press them to my forehead, and _run._

_Peeta, I have the medicine._

_Don't die on me._

_You have to live._

_I need you._

* * *

Back by request: **Manny's Hunger Games Fanfic Rec's**

"The Gift" by Ameiko - because I love when Katniss clues in and takes care of Peeta.


	20. The Storm

Theme music: "Your Guardian Angel" by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

* * *

**The Storm**

* * *

There's going to be a feast. I can hear my father's voice calling to me, telling me about it. A feast. It must be the Harvest Festival. I have to get up. I have to get out of bed before my mother comes to get me. She hates it when I sleep in and we have so much work to do. Days of work. It takes a lot of bread to celebrate the Harvest Festival. I have to get up.

In five more minutes. Just… in a minute. I'll go downstairs in a minute.

Has it been a minute? Not yet. No one is yelling at me from the hallway. I'm fine. It's fine. Everything's fine.

But I really do have to get up. The festival. I have to help in the kitchen. I have to clean out the ovens, knead the dough, wash the bowls, carry the trays—

I try to roll out of bed, but I can't make it. It's too cold. Damp. Hot. _Painful._ What?

Oh. I see. I'm sick. I must be, but it's so dark here. I close my eyes as quickly as I'd opened them and groan. No, not the basement again. I hate the basement. I know it's better for everyone else. I won't make them sick, too, if I'm in the basement, but it's cold and it smells and, oh God I'm so damn miserable I could puke.

No, I mustn't puke. My mother will kill me. Or worse, make me clean it up myself.

"Please," I moan. "Don't make me… Let me out…"

A cold hand on my forehead—

I flinch.

—but the touch is gentle.

I relax.

Mrs. Everner? The apothecary? Did my dad call her?

A touch – a tiny poke – on my leg.

I scream. I grit my teeth and force it back. I'll only pay for it later if the customers upstairs hear me howling. I have to be quiet but, oh God it hurts. Everything hurts. My stomach is rolling itself inside out. I can't… _I can't… I can't…!_

Please.

Stop.

Make it stop.

Another touch at my leg. Not as bad, but bad. I try to crawl, claw, clamor away, but I can't move. _I can't move._ Too heavy. No, something on me. Duff is sitting on me. I don't want to wrestle now, damn it! Get off!

I gasp for breath. My leg tingles. I can feel it spreading from my thigh outward. Numbness. Sweet nothing. Yes. Please and thank you very much.

Oh.

"That feels better," I mumble.

"Ngh."

I pause and think. Why is that grunt so familiar? And why is Duff still sitting on me?

But I don't think it is Duff. I don't think this is the basement under the bakery. I don't think it's time for the Harvest Festival, either.

My heart pounds harder as the tingles spread, leaving numbness in their wake. I know I have to open my eyes. I have to do it now or I won't be able to.

I force myself awake, fully awake, and I realize where I am the minute I see the wash of daylight on the ceiling of the cave. I know before I look down whose weight is draped over my chest.

I reach for her even before I can manage to say her name: "Katniss!"

There is blood everywhere.

Everywhere.

Oh, God. _No._

My hands shake as I roll her onto her side. A used syringe falls from her grasp and an open tin tumbles to the ground.

Medicine.

She gave me medicine and it looks like her head has been cleaved open.

But it hasn't. Oh, thank God, it hasn't. My fingers only find a long, thin cut. I have to bandage it. She needs medicine—

I fumble for the tin. There's still a fair amount of ointment inside. I glance down at my leg. The wound is slimy with a heaping application of this clear jelly stuff. If it can make my leg feel better, then it'll surely help Katniss.

I start to reach into the pot and then I notice my hands. Bloody, muddy. When was the last time I washed them? I can't remember. I don't have anything to wipe my hands on, nothing clean—

Water!

I lunge for the water bottle. My entire left arm shakes as I carefully rinse my right hand and then Katniss' forehead. So much blood. Oh, God. Is she going to wake up? _Can _she?

Scooping out a thick glob of ointment, I smear it over the weeping cut, praying that the bleeding will stop, that she will wake up. As gently as I can, I tangle my noodle-like arms around her shoulders and hips, pulling her onto the sleeping bag with me, holding her close so I can feel every breath she takes against my chest. She's breathing. Yes, she's breathing. Her hair is caked with drying blood and she's so damn pale, but she's breathing.

I slump back onto the rolled up blanket, and just… stop panicking for a minute.

"Goddamn it, Katniss," I rasp. My throat feels raw.

What had she done? Where had the medicine come from? A parachute? If so, then why is she injured? I gather my strength and sit up a bit. With the adrenaline fading from my system, that spectacular numbness is on the move again. I can feel it crawling up my chest like a warm blanket. I blink my eyes and catch sight of a small, deflated grey bag on the cavern floor. I can see the number twelve on it.

Not a parachute, then. A feast.

And she went to it.

Oh, my God. If I weren't teetering on the very edge of sleep, I'd be furious. I will be furious. Very furious… later. Later…

My stomach wakes me, cramping with hunger until I think I'll snap in two. With a glimpse at Katniss' forehead, I confirm that though it looks raw and vulnerable to infection, it isn't bleeding anymore. I check her pulse next, pressing two fingertips gently to the side of her neck. Slow and steady. Oh, good. She's alive. And there's no sign of fever. Excellent.

Then I gulp down some water and empty my jacket pockets of the beef jerky I'd scorned a couple of days ago, wolfing them down. When I think I might survive the next five minutes without dissolving into a seething mass of digestive juices, I turn my attention toward my leg.

Oh, wow. It looks so much better already. I experimentally roll my knee to the side and brace myself for the pain, but only a small, sharp twinge accompanies the movement. Encouraged, I try bending it. Still sore, but I think I can walk on it. I feel pretty good, actually. So, I guess I can get angry at Katniss anytime. She really shouldn't have gone out there alone, gotten hurt and nearly _killed._

I don't notice that I'm breathing harder or that my fingers have curled tightly into her shoulder until she stirs. Her brows twitch into a frown which turns into a wince and then her lashes flutter. I gape at her unfocused grey eyes.

"Hey," she murmurs, a slight smile pulling at her lips.

How can I stay angry with her when she looks at me like that?

She blinks, focuses, and her gaze zooms down to my leg which I'd halted in mid-stretch. "You're better."

"Yeah. Thanks to you." Oh, right. That's how I can be angry with her. I bite back the rest of what I want to say and reach for the water bottle, holding it to her lips. Maybe my tone had been harsh because she stares at me, almost glaring, as I wait for her to drink her fill.

"What?" she demands before I can hold onto my good intentions long enough to offer her something to eat. I really should. She needs to eat. But that look, that tone, that total lack of apology just… just—

_"What?"_ I echo. "You go out to a feast _alone_ and get your head sliced open and _you_ have the nerve to ask me what _my problem is?"_

She withdraws into herself, angling her chin down and moving as if to roll away. I don't let her go. She can be as Goddamn belligerent as she wants, but I'm sure as hell not letting her off of this sleeping bag and onto the cold ground. We're going to have this out in relative comfort.

She mumbles, "I didn't get my head sliced open."

"Oh really? Have you seen it? Because I'm looking at it right now and that's what it looks like to me!"

"I'm fine!"

"You almost weren't!" And, here we go. The flood gates of my temper are officially open. "I come to and there you are, passed out. Blood everywhere. _Everywhere, Katniss! You scared the shit out of me!"_

"That's not my fault," she growls. I can't believe she isn't screaming, clawing, punching, fighting my strangle hold on her.

"Yes, it is. You didn't even tell me about the feast. You didn't even tell me you were going!" _You didn't even let me say goodbye._

"You would have tried to stop me."

"No, I _would have _stopped you! Goddamn it, you can't die for me. Okay? I won't allow it!"

She shoves at me weakly, but I don't let her go. "Stop it. I gave you your stupid day, didn't I? I wanted to go. I went. I wasn't going to sit here and watch you die."

"Well, you should have!"

Her glare sears through me. I've felt the chill of her icy stare. I've butted my head against the other one, the one made of stone. This is one different. It's all fire. "No."

That's all she says. For a second, I think I'm going to explode. My anger is just over the top. I'm clinging to my control with the ragged edges of my torn and dirty fingernails. Through gritted teeth, I tell her, "You can't—do that—to me—again."

I will have nightmares about all that blood, about finding her limp body in a heap. In my nightmares, I won't be able to find a pulse or feel her breath and I'll realize that she has left me and I— "I can't do that again. Maybe you can—" And I don't doubt that she could: she's so damn brave. "—but I can't."

She doesn't say anything and, after a moment, I relent. I hadn't really expected her to promise not to do something foolish and courageous again, but I think I got my point across. Next time, maybe she'll think about what it will do to me. Next time, maybe she'll hesitate. That moment might be all it takes to make her see reason. Next time.

God, please don't ever let there be a next time.

I blow out a breath. "Okay. Enough," I tell her, lying back and rubbing my free hand over my scabby, grubby face, spearing my fingers through my oily, dusty hair. "I'm done. Yelling is done now."

She blinks at me, a little offended or confused or… something. I take a deep breath and smile. She's surprised that it reaches my eyes, I can tell. "You're not mad anymore?" she checks, looking dazed.

Because I need to be sure, I take a second and think about it. I'm scared and frustrated. I love her and it hurts a little – I suspect it always will – but am I angry with her? "Nope. I got it all out of my system."

Her lips quirk upward in a moment of helpless levity.

"Come here," I say even though it's me who pulls her tightly against my side. I rub her arm gently, trying to soothe the ache left by my clutching fingers, and close my eyes on a contented sigh when she leans in, more welcoming than relenting. I wonder if she even knows that she's doing it.

We lie here in silence. It's peaceful, I guess, but as the minutes pass, an odd tension creeps in. I look away from my study of the stone ceiling and note how Katniss has her head tucked down against my chest, her arms curled up between us. I'm tempted to reach for her hands, but I poke her playfully in the shoulder instead. "Hey. You're quiet. Too quiet. Say something." Or I'll suspect her of plotting.

Katniss blows out a sharp breath. "I'm not good at saying something."

"Oh, I dunno," I tease softly, "you have your moments."

Her silence couldn't possibly be more doubtful.

I give her an example. "Remember after the Tribute Parade? What you told Haymitch?"

I sense her slight smile. She remembers aloud: _"Are you sure you should be near an open flame?"_

I duck down so I can press a brief, laughing kiss to her temple. "Yeah. That was pretty great."

"I can't believe you still think it's funny."

"It has been immortalized in my memory."

She slowly shakes her head. I chuckle softly. Yeah, I'm hopeless. Time to change the subject. "Hey," I begin, "you hungry?"

"A little."

I sit up, cradling Katniss' head carefully in the crook of my elbow and then in the palm of my hand as I lay her back down. She watches me with wide eyes that make me teeter on the brink of clumsiness. I try to be gentle. I'm not sure if I succeed, but she doesn't cringe. Surely, that's a good sign.

There's only a handful of berries left. Following her instructions, I crawl over her and stretch for the nearby backpack, finding the last of the wild fowl inside.

I don't even try to feed her like she had me. I dump the food into her hands, move to sit next to her again, and with a hand on each of her arms slowly pull her upright. I know this is something I could have easily done a few days ago – hell, I'd carried her through the woods for something like an hour on Day Four – but just helping her sit up takes a concentrated effort. I'm almost winded. Shit. Can I embarrass myself a bit more, maybe?

We eat in silence and I make sure to give her the larger half. I'd eaten all the jerky, after all, but my stomach still feels echoingly empty. I try not to sigh when the food is all gone.

"I'll go hunting soon," she tells me.

Not with that cut on her head, she won't. "I'll set some snares," I argue indirectly, which is probably the wisest way to disagree with her at this point.

We both glance to the mouth of the cave at the same time and I'm surprised that the sound of rain falling hasn't registered before now. It's pouring outside, and it's a dark, dreary day, not dusk as I'd assumed. How long were we out of it?

"When the rain lets up," she mutters and I'm not sure if she's talking about going hunting or my intent to set up some snares. I don't really feel like getting into it with her right this second. We can always argue later.

"So, I guess we're gonna be here for a while longer. You want me to tell you a story?"

A soft bark of laughter escapes her. She flinches and lifts a hand to her still-healing forehead. "Ow. Don't make me laugh."

"Okay. It'll be a very serious story," I promise.

She doesn't believe me. "Uh-huh."

"I know a lot of stories," I add persuasively.

"I'm sure."

"About pigs and older brothers…" I pause, timing it just right so it sounds as if the thought has only now occurred to me, "Interesting how those two coincide."

She laughs, louder and longer this time. _"Ow._ You are evil." But she's smiling as she says it.

"Sorry. Okay, no stories for now. Serious discussion only." I reach over for the tin of medicine. "Here. Let me put a bit more of this on your forehead. That cut still looks tender."

"No, you use it. For your leg."

"My leg is fine." I scoop out a glob and shift, lifting my hand to her face.

She leans away. "I'm serious."

So am I. "Katniss, you need it, too. Come here." I don't try and chase after her, sensing that if I do, she'll flinch back out of pure stubbornness. I hold up my hand and wait patiently for her to concede.

Jaw set, she reaches over and grabs the pot of ointment from my grasp. I bite back a sigh as she doggedly applies a second dose to my leg. She frustrates me so damn much. Her touch is so damn gentle. I can't decide if I should be irritated or awed.

When my healing sword wound has been treated to her satisfaction, she turns her face toward my hand. "Okay," she says, visibly tolerating the necessity of medical aid.

Well, I'm not letting her get away with that kind of attitude. I reach up and cradle her cheek gently in my hand. Her face is thinner than the last time I'd done this. I hope she doesn't get sick. My heart aches for what her body must be going through. Mine is going through the same struggle against hunger. I wouldn't wish this kind of deterioration on anyone.

Except the Gamemakers. And President Snow.

Lifting my fingers to her forehead, I nudge her hair out of the way and slowly, carefully, apply the gel, following the curve of her brow, keeping my eyes on what I'm doing, relishing this moment which is happening out of necessity, true, but needn't be treated as such. Although the Gamemakers can – and probably _are _– intruding on this, filming us from half a dozen different angles, I ignore them. If Panem wants to see this, there's nothing I can do to stop them and I won't change for them. It's raining; Katniss and I have nowhere we have to be; we are safe and sound, and I am not taking shortcuts with anything that doesn't have to be rushed.

So I take my time, my hands lingering even when there's nothing else to be done for her injury. I have to pull away before I'm really ready to, but I know I can't just sit here staring at the thin, red line in her skin. Swallowing around the lump of nerves crowding my throat, I meet her gaze.

Oh.

Oh, God.

That's the look. The look that's on the sketch in my jacket pocket, the sketch I just can't bear to share with the entire world unless I absolutely have to. She's looking at me with soft, grey eyes. Luminous and giving. This is more than trust, more than caring. This is—

I let out a slow breath and make an effort to calm my galloping heart.

This is beautiful. I could live for this look. I would happily wait every day for the rest of my life for the chance to see it just once more. It's everything I've ever wanted.

I should say something, but I've got nothing.

A light flashes above from the mouth of the cave. We both jerk. Katniss reaches for her bow and nocks an arrow just as a crash of thunder rolls over us. When her arms sag, I realize that she probably shouldn't be sitting up for prolonged periods of time, not with the amount of blood she's lost.

"Here," I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Take the sleeping bag."

"What are you doing?" she asks, positioning her weapons near at hand and relaxing back.

I glance up at the cave ceiling. "With as hard as it's coming down out there, it's probably only a matter of time before—"

A cold droplet lands on my cheek. Another almost hits my eye. I pull my shirt cuff out from under my jacket sleeve and wipe at my face. "Never mind."

Katniss snorts once, softly. "Great timing."

"Yeah. I totally win at life." Hearing myself, I wince. Then, sigh. "I'll take care of it." Before she can protest, I add, "It's my turn." And, miracle of miracles, she doesn't put up a fight.

As she dozes on the sleeping bag, I do what I can with a length of wire and a small sheet of plastic that I find in her once-orange backpack. I set our water bottle outside the cave entrance, angling it against the rocks to catch the rainwater runoff. It'd go a lot faster – and it'd be cleaner – with the plastic sheet funneling the water into it, but we need that inside in order to keep the sleeping bag as dry as possible.

I'm pleasantly surprised that I really can move around well on my leg. It does ache a little, sometimes sharply and sometimes dully, but I can put all my weight on it without having to face the ol' screaming-puking-passing-out dilemma. Awesome.

Speaking of awesome, I should do something resembling that. We're going to need food if this storm lasts much longer and, as Haymitch reminded us on the train, that sort of thing only comes from sponsors.

Right. Okay. No pressure.

"What is it?" Katniss asks.

Hm. I guess she's noticed that I'm just standing here looking lost. I don't have to be, I realize. I'm not lost or alone. She can help me with this. If I can only figure out what to say…

"The canopy works," she observes and I grin, absurdly pleased with my efforts.

"Ah yes, you can rely on me for an elegant roof, made of this amazing, miracle fabric called 'plastic tarp' to shelter your lovely head. M'lady." I sketch out a bow, my grin widening when she rolls her eyes. My leg objects to all the activity I've been forcing on it, so I start lowering myself to the sleeping bag for a rest.

"My hero," Katniss sighs, almost playfully.

I laugh. Me, a hero. Right. I guess I sort of am compared to the likes of Cato. Shaking my head, I drawl, "Yeah, well, I don't have much competition here."

"Peeta."

A thread of urgency – or maybe sincerity? – grabs my attention. I look over my shoulder. Katniss has braced herself up on one elbow, as if to physically reach for me with her gaze.

She whispers, "You don't have much competition anywhere."

What? …oh. Uh, really?

I feel my brows twitch, asking that very question in silence.

She stretches out a hand to grasp mine and I can feel the tremor in her fingers. I curse myself. She should be resting. She needs to rest because I can't carry her out of here, not like I could a few days ago. I curl toward her, urging her to lie back down, but when I feel her grip on my hand tighten and tug, my breath catches. I'm falling forward in slow motion and then her chin angles upward. Her lips press softly against my battered cheek.

Oh, sweet yes please once more.

My eyelids droop with the weight of my want as I brace myself over her, holding still, hoping…

Her hand squeezes mine and her fingers trace the line of my brow, pushing my lank hair back from my face in a slow caress.

My eyes drift shut. Yes, perfection.

I guide her hand, still linked with mine, to my mouth and press kiss after kiss to her skin, one to each scraped and battered knuckle, and then one more – warm and lingering – to the tender inside of her wrist. She inhales shakily and our gazes met. I nuzzle the palm of her hand. I love her. I love her I love her I love her.

Her fingers burrow greedily into my hair and I am this close to abandoning my reservations and anxieties and just giving the hell in, giving the Capitol a free show: our first _real_ kiss, a kiss that both of our mouths and lips, teeth and tongues share in. I love her and I want that kiss, her kiss.

But the cameras… The Gamemakers… Panem and Twelve…

Will that kiss still be real if it doesn't belong to only the two of us?

I… don't know.

And I don't have to find out. Just then, a soft chime dances down into the cave. A dull shine of silver catches my eye as it floats to the ground outside.

Haymitch has just sent us another parachute.

* * *

**Notes:**

This is perhaps the biggest canon divergence as far as Peeta's character is concerned: he has zero interest in "sharing" his relationship with Katniss with the people of the Capitol. As the youngest (and perhaps least-loved) of three brothers, I doubt he would have had many new things or things that were all and only his own as a child. I think Peeta's a pretty generous person in spite of this, but my muse insists that there is an exception to every generality. So, Peeta will not share his Katniss. Whatever she gives him is his and he'll fight to keep it private.

Also, I think Haymitch understands this. (In the book, he sends at least one well-timed parachute which interrupts an oncoming kiss, I think. A real one and not one that Katniss thinks she should give for the sake of sponsors.) Haymitch understands better than Katniss and Peeta how the Games can screw with your perception of reality and I believe he wants to spare them that as much as possible, hence the sudden arrival of the parachute.

**Manny's Hunger Games Fanfic Rec's**

"Things Owed" by nonemoreblack - because I love seeing Peeta hopelessly dream of Katniss AND THEN get mad enough to yell at her when she deserves it.


	21. Stargazing

Theme music: "Science & Faith" by The Script

NOTE: A scene from this chapter was submitted to Prompts in Panem on Tumblr for Round 3 (in March 2013) for Day 6, Canon Places - The Cave. So if you think you might have read this before, that's probably where you saw it.

* * *

**Stargazing**

* * *

Katniss Everdeen is the most stubborn girl I have ever met. She is definitely the most stubborn girl in all of Twelve. Maybe in all of Panem. The universe.

"I'll take the zipper side," I insist with admirable calm. It had taken her some minutes to negotiate me into sharing the sleeping bag with her. The temperature is dropping like bird shit – _frozen _bird shit, no less – and, honestly, I had not been looking forward to spending half the night freezing my ass off on guard duty. Or trying to sleep while knowing that Katniss was freezing during her shift. No, sharing the sleeping bag with Katniss is not going to be a hardship in that sense.

I would have been more than a bit apprehensive about the close quarters except that we're both so weary and dirty that I doubt it'll be dangerously pleasant… or even remotely tempting. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself, but whatever. The decision has been made: we're sharing it. But now she's trying to tell me that _she _should be the one facing the entrance just in case someone finds us, sneaks up on us in our sleep, and tries to kill us. She wants to be the first line of defense, the first target, the first to face death.

Goddamn it. Why does she do this shit to me?

"I can't shoot an arrow around you," she explains. She's not as cool as she'd like me to think, though. I can see the way her jaw muscles clench both before and after her remark.

"You can shoot over me. I'll be, like, the barricade or whatever."

"No."

"Well, I'm not letting Clove have a clear line of sight to you."

"Clove is dead."

This is news to me. I want to ask, but I don't really think she wants to tell me the details, and if I'm honest with myself about it, I have to admit that I don't really need them. Although the information would be nice to have, I ask only what I need to know: "Who's left, then?"

"Cato, Thresh, the girl from Five, us."

That's all?

"So I'm taking the zipper side," she concludes.

I experience a strong and immediate desire to bang my head into the nearest wall.

She adds, "Look, no one's going to be out there searching for us in this weather."

Okay, that's a valid point, but… "If that's the case, then there's no reason for _you_ to sleep closest to the entrance." The following thunder clap seems to second that.

She crosses her arms. "There's no reason for you to do it, either."

Oh, a stalemate. Fantastic. I huff out a breath. "Okay. Thumb war," I propose.

"What."

"If we had a table, I'd suggest arm wrestling."

"This isn't funny!" she growls.

I love that growl. Even when she's pissing me off. "No, it isn't, but the longer we drag this out, the less rest we get. Either let me take point or we go to thumb war."

"Thumb war it is."

We battle, she wins. How the hell had that happened? My hands are way bigger than hers. "Hey, hey, best out of three!" I protest when she smirks at me.

"Nice try." She unzips the bag with a flourish and holds it open. "After you."

Grumbling, I acquiesce. "If you get stabbed, slashed, or strangled tonight—"

"Then you can take the entrance side tomorrow without any arguments from me."

"That's so not funny it's… _really _not funny."

I lie back and wait for her to tuck herself in beside me, zipping us in nice and snug. And despite the amount of weight we've both lost recently, the fit is very, very snug.

Approximately two minutes after she lays her head on my outstretched arm and presses her back to my front, I know with absolute certainty that I'm not going to be able to convince myself that I'm sharing a bed with one of my brothers. And not for the reason you're thinking. Well, not exactly. I mean, yeah, it feels like there's electricity humming in this bedroll with us, but my body is still so exhausted from combating infection and blood loss that there's no way I'll have any inconvenient issues, er, _arising_ tonight. Actually, my problem is that I just can't figure out what I'm supposed to do with my other arm, the one not tucked under her head for a pillow.

"You're not sleeping," she points out after about ten minutes of muscle-locked awkwardness. Is it just my imagination or does she sound accusing?

"Neither are you."

"You're all tense."

She's kidding, right? I mean, hell, she feels like one solid muscle cramp. "Because you are."

She wiggles, her booted feet accidently kicking mine at the foot of the sleeping bag, and then I feel her hand on my arm, pulling it over her waist. She tangles our fingers together and, when she lets out a deep breath, her body melts invitingly against mine. Still wary but knowing my compliance is inevitable, I lean a bit closer, nudging her braid aside with my nose.

When I inhale the musky scent rising off her skin and feel the soft strands of her hair against my lips, I know – with absolute certainty – that I've been kidding myself. I try to angle my hips away from hers, but there's just no room to work with. Goddamn it.

"Katniss?" I ask softly.

"Hm?"

I open my mouth to mutter a pre-emptive apology for being a boy. Given how fast the Capitol medicine has been working, it's probably a good bet that I'll be back to my normal, sixteen-year-old self by morning. The rich, lamb stew that Haymitch had sent us today will also play a major role in my recovery, I'm sure. And then there's the fact that I'm snuggling in a sleeping bag with Katniss Everdeen.

I open my mouth to warn her about, you know, the fact that I'm what you could call a morning person, but I just can't bring myself to say it. Maybe it won't happen. Maybe she won't notice if it does. Maybe it will rain muffins tonight with a side of strawberries.

"What?" she asks, sounding slightly irked.

I breathe out against her neck. I settle on a lame "I'll see you in the morning."

"See you in the morning," she answers. Her fingers squeeze mine.

I close my eyes.

My first thought upon waking is of Katniss' voice, her words – admission? – from yesterday: _"You don't have much competition anywhere."_

My heart throbs. So do, um, other things. Shit. A moment of panic stampedes through me, from scalp to soles, before I realize that I'm alone in the sleeping bag. I open my eyes. Rain-cloud-diffused daylight illuminates the cavern… which is alarmingly empty.

I sit up so suddenly I almost catch my knees and boots in the fabric of the sleeping bag and lose my balance. As I struggle with the zipper, I note the presence of both backpacks, the hiss-and-patter of rain outside and the sharp counterpoint of splatters on the tarp overhead, the large box of food we have yet to finish eating from yesterday…

But no Katniss. No bow. No arrows.

Shit, shit, _shit._

I scramble toward the cave entrance and—

—nearly tumble back down onto the floor when Katniss swings around the corner, her jacket sparkling and glistening with rainwater.

"Hey," she says, grasping my arms while I try and convince my hammering heart to squeeze itself back into my chest. She steadies me, probably thinking that I'm fighting a wave of dizziness, and I'm grateful for her touch no matter the reason for it. Grateful even as I feel a bubble of anger push against my skin from within.

I don't trust myself not to start yelling at her again. I know I'm being unreasonable. She probably had to go to the bathroom or something. Now that we're both capable of some mobility, there's no reason for having to spend every single moment in sight of each other. But it's hard to turn off my panic reflex after spending however long terrified for her safety, hearing cannons boom and not knowing if one of them had been for her.

When I'm calm enough to manage it, I answer, "Hey. Morning. Did you go hunting?"

"Not really." She moves past me and sets down the mostly full bottle of rainwater on the cave floor. Ah, she must have gone out and fetched it. "But if the opportunity had presented itself…" She shrugs.

"Oh. Right." I glance out into the rain, flinching when another flash of lightning and an accompanying, ear-splitting crack of thunder rip through the arena. Not the best of times to answer the call of nature, but it beats the trough method. I pull my hood up and head out into the deluge. There are few things more miserable than trying to manage a bowel movement in the rain, but I'm pretty sure I've experienced most of them in the last week and a bit so I don't complain.

Honestly, given the fact that the sword wound on my leg is almost completely healed, I've got nothing to complain about. I cannot believe how efficient the Capitol medicine is. I'll have a scar by the end of the day today and little else to show for my brush with death.

Katniss welcomes me back to the cave with a small bowl of rice and stew. It isn't warm anymore, but I honestly couldn't care less.

"So, anything on the agenda today?" I inquire.

"Not as long as it's raining like this."

I guess that means I can get back to that unending list of questions I'd started working down back in the Training Center. Grinning, I ask her when her birthday is. She takes the random topic selection in stride.

"Why did you start wrestling?" she says before I can ask what she usually does on her birthdays.

"Well, with two older brothers, it's kind of an occupational hazard." Do or die. But, uh, not literally… obviously.

She pokes her spoon into her bowl of stew, mixing each individual grain of rice into the broth. "You're really good at it."

"No, not really." The old flash of unease in response to being singled out is still there, but I feel a kernel of pride beneath it… because Katniss had just admitted to noticing me. Again.

"You would have won the school tournament last year if you hadn't thrown the match."

I stare at her.

She looks up. "What?"

"Maybe I didn't throw the match. Maybe Duff really beat me." He certainly could. He's bigger and heavier than me. Although those factors don't always guarantee a win, they're often a part of it.

Lowering her gaze to her cold stew, she mutters, "You had him, but you let him win. It was obvious."

Obvious to Katniss. God, how closely has she been paying attention to me?

When she glances at me, her lips twitch as if she can't help smiling and that's when I realize that _I'm_ the one who's smiling like an idiot and taking her along for the ride, catching her up in the net of my elation. I want to ask her when she'd started noticing me, but I can't do that to her. If we were alone, maybe, but we're not and I don't want to embarrass her. And, if I'm totally honest, I don't want anyone besides me to hear her answer.

"You better watch out for Duff when you get back to Twelve," I tease instead.

Her mouth quirks up in a true – if lopsided – smile. "You'll protect me."

That I will. "Am I so transparent?"

"You just want a chance to show off now that you know I'm paying attention."

"Damn right."

She laughs. Oh God, she's beautiful.

Because I want an excuse to sit next to her again instead of facing each other on the slightly-damp sleeping bag, I grab a stick and start poking little holes in the dirt floor of the cave.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting ready to take you stargazing." I try not to smile as I wait for it…

"…what?"

I slowly let the grin out, softening it into an invitation to a friendly conspiracy. "But you're going to have to use your imagination."

She stares at me, incredulous. "It's daytime. And it's raining."

"I know. That's why we're going to have our stars on the ground." I continue jabbing more holes of varying depths and widths at irregular intervals. "Pretend the world is upside down," I begin, gesturing to the field of holes-in-the-dirt stars. "This is the sky and these are the stars and we're going to make up our own constellations with names and stories."

"Peeta."

"Yeah?" I don't look at her. I can feel my ears starting to burn with embarrassment.

"Where did this come from?"

She means my crazy, inverted-world idea, I think, but hell even I don't know. I offer to explain the stargazing bit instead. "Uh, well… you know how our Earth Science class is slightly less exciting than watching dough rise?" She frowns slightly and I belatedly realize I'd used a baking metaphor that she might not be familiar with. Yeast is expensive in Twelve. "Or waiting for water to boil?"

"Yes." Her tone is guarded. She has no idea where I'm going with this.

"Right, so if you were guy who likes a girl and wants to ask her out, it'd be the perfect time to try and come up with some ideas for your first date."

"You spend Earth Science class thinking up places for a date?"

"Pretty much."

"And you thought of stargazing?"

Most recently, yes. I've got a lot of ideas, actually, but I focus on this one. "Not just stargazing, but making up constellations, telling stories about them…" And then I could sketch them out for her, make a little book of tales that are ours, hers and mine. That book could still be ours even if this moment isn't. "So, I know we don't have any actual stars right now, but we've got lots of dirt and some light and nothing else planned for today so I thought… um…"

Katniss continues watching me.

I gulp.

Finally, she finishes my thought aloud: "You thought we could have a date?"

"Er…" I feel the skin at the back of my neck tighten. I know I'm turning bright read. I suddenly feel hot and sweaty inside my jacket. "Uh… would that be too much to ask?"

It must seem incredibly stupid for me to even suggest something like a date in the middle of the Games. We've both been injured and starved. Death could be just around the corner. But I think it's _because_ of this that I dare. The odds might be in our favor today, but tomorrow and all the days after are little more that speculation.

I'm hesitant to meet her gaze, but I do it anyway, bracing myself for her reaction. For a very long moment, she just looks at me. I can't read any sort of response – positive or negative – and I hold my breath. Finally, she gives me an almost smile and moves to sit next to me on the sleeping bag. "You go first," she directs and I'm so relieved that I don't bother to argue.

"Okay." I survey the field of holes on the cave floor and, after a minute, I select a small collection of them, connecting them with lines drawn from the soggy stick in my grasp. "Okay. This is a squirrel."

"A squirrel?" she prompts.

"Yes, an uncatchable squirrel." I have an inspired thought, though I'm careful not to imply too much when I share it: "The one squirrel that no hunter can shoot or catch, no matter how skilled they are."

"Really?"

I nod.

"So it's like… the lord of all squirrels?"

I bite back my laughter. I don't want her to think it's a stupid idea. Maybe it is, but I think it's great. Katniss and I are both alive and she has agreed to have a date with me. We can talk about squirrels, common or noble, if we want. I don't care what anyone else thinks of it. "Yes. The lord of squirrels and he lives in a tree so tall that he can climb up to the highest branches and harvest stars for his dinner."

Katniss reaches for the stick but, instead of taking it from me, she guides my hand with hers and draws in a few lines above the squirrel lord. "He glows after he eats them," she adds, indicating that the lines are meant to be rays of light emanating from his furry body.

I'm grinning so widely that my face is starting to ache. I bump her shoulder with mine. "I like that. Should we give him a little glass lantern for his home? So he can curl up and shine all night long?"

"With his little belly full of stars," Katniss agrees, helping me connect the stars of his lantern, caging him inside it.

"Awesome," I tell her, but the word barely does my feelings on the matter justice. "Now you." I offer her the stick and she takes it. A small wrinkle appears between her brows as she thinks. I have to curl my fingers into my jacket to keep from reaching up and gently smoothing it out with my thumb.

She makes up a story about a goat that used to be a beautiful woman who mistakenly ate a plant called Goat's Breath—

"Is that a real plant?" I interrupt.

"Does it have to be?" Her apprehension would look defensive to most people, but I can tell the difference. She's nervous, afraid of making an ass of herself and getting laughed at. I know how that feels and I'd never do that to her.

"No, no. I'm just curious. I don't know much about plants." If I'm going to draw this someday, I'd like to know if I should be working from a point of reference or if I can come up with a whole new creation.

"Oh. Well, it's not. Real, I mean. It's not real."

"Okay. So what happened after she turned into a goat?"

It turns out that the woman-goat got lost in the woods, was attacked by a wild dog, and rescued by Katniss' little sister, Prim. Prim nursed the goat back to health and named her "Lady" and now the goat loves Primrose Everdeen with a devotion never before witnessed in a goat.

"And that's because she's not really a goat at all." I grin at her cleverness: Katniss is so smart. With this little story she has brought her sister back into the Games, reminded everyone of how Katniss had volunteered for her at the Reaping, and what a special girl Primrose Everdeen must be. Katniss might not be a people person, but her strategies are brilliant. I could learn a lot from her.

"Exactly," Katniss agrees, returning my smile and giving me _that look._ She passes the stick back to me. "Top that."

I take on her dare with yet another wide grin – or is it still the same one from earlier? – and I make a show of rolling up my jacket and shirt sleeves. God, have I ever smiled this much in one day?

We spend the afternoon coming up with story after story. Most are silly, but I love them all. And I love the way Katniss becomes more and more uninhibited with her ideas. I have no idea if there's anything in her life that allows her to be creative – she's so pragmatic all the time – so I wonder if this is a first for her, if _I_ can do this for her.

When the anthem starts to play that evening, the relaxed atmosphere thickens with a vague sense of dread. For a few hours, I'd kind of forgotten that we were in the middle of the Games. I can feel from where our shoulders are pressed together that Katniss is tensing, too. I can't remember the last time I'd heard rain drops falling or drips splattering the tarp over our heads. Our date is over and the storm is done.

Swallowing back a sigh, I offer her my hand and we head up to the mouth of the cave. I wrap an arm around her shoulders before she can start shivering. Our breath plumes like white goose down in the night air. The storm had been relentless today – lightning and thunder punctuating our stories – but I'm pretty sure that I hadn't head the cannon.

So I'm just as surprised as Katniss when a single face appears in the sky. District Eleven.

Thresh is dead.

* * *

**Manny's Hunger Games Fanfic Rec's**

"Fae" by HGRomance - because magic is as magic does and this story is so magical it makes my eyelashes tingle. And check out the suggested theme music for the fic, too. It's a wonderful fit.


	22. Hunting and Gathering

Theme music: "Breathe" by Thomas Fiss

**Hunting and Gathering**

* * *

"Are you sure?"

Katniss nudges the nearly-overflowing bowl in my direction more insistently. "Yes. The sun is out. We're going hunting."

I don't have to look in the direction of the cave entrance to confirm the change in weather. I can just about smell the lush and humid, sunlight-warmed forest from here. It sure as hell hadn't taken the Gamemakers long to program in a heat wave.

"Okay." I accept the cold stew and try not to inhale it in one gulp. It's the biggest serving we've allowed ourselves so far. Actually, this will finish it. Just as well, I suppose. It won't keep for much longer.

I check, "We still have the cheese and rolls, don't we?"

Katniss nods, already digging in to her portion.

I admire her single-minded focus for a moment before I tease her, "Careful there or I'll start thinking I was boring you."

"Huh?"

I shake my head, chuckling. "Storytelling versus hunting… No contest. I get it."

She squints sideways at me, her expression turning speculative and a little playful. "Haven't you done any hunting in the arena?"

"Aside from the snares we learned how to set in the Training Center? Uh, no." I try not to look forward to finding out what that twinkle in her eyes means. It looks like one hell of an idea, that's for sure, but I don't think I can take many more surprises from Katniss Everdeen.

I mean, in the last few weeks, she has defended me: _"Your mother shouldn't have said that to you—"_

She has complimented me: _"You're really good at that… the cakes… they're beautiful—"_

She has teased me: _"And if I told you to jump off a cliff?"_

She has trusted me, smiled for me, saved my life repeatedly, told me stories, held me while I slept, cared about me…

I'm starting to lose track of all these unimaginable miracles. The morning of the Reaping, if someone had told me that I'd be spending the night with Katniss in my arms in a little over two weeks' time, I would have threatened them with bodily harm for mocking my heartache with more of the same.

But it really has happened. Last night. That was real.

I have to stop and take a deep breath, concentrate on holding the bowl in my hands and maneuvering the spoon because, for a moment there, I'd nearly forgotten they even existed.

So, last night had been, uh, slightly less restful than the previous one. With Katniss pressed against my side, her arm curled up on my chest, her knee thrown over my thigh, and her breath softly puffing against my neck, I'd been just a little bit distracted.

I close my eyes, remembering how my body had hummed and tingled in the darkness. Every inch of it.

It still does.

I think I understand that saying about having too much of a good thing now. Oh God, as the hours had stretched onward and outward in the darkness, I'd been this close to losing my mind. Not that I would have gotten out of that sleeping bag, not for anything except a matter of life or death, but what a very special and rare form of torment it had been holding her all night. Neither of us had been incapacitated or grieving. It had been just the two of us. She'd trusted me enough to let me take the zipper side, then laid her head on my shoulder and slept.

Is there something that comes after love? Some next level of devotion? There must be, because saying that I love her, that I am _in love_ with her, just isn't enough anymore. The words are criminally inadequate.

"I wonder what Effie would say if she could see us," Katniss suddenly muses.

I look up in time to watch her finish licking her spoon clean.

"Uhtmuh…" How articulate, I know.

She sighs into the depths of the bowl, breath tinged with despair.

For some reason, I feel inspired. I suck the remains of the stew off of my own spoon and then declare to the cameras, "Hey, Effie! Check this out!" My spoon hits the cave wall somewhere behind me and I stick my finger in the pot like I used to when I'd clean the remains of frosting from the mixing bowl.

Katniss startles at the clatter of the spoon, blinks at me, looks almost horrified as I suck the broth off my finger, and laughs.

I now have zero pride, but it was worth it – _so_ worth it – just for that laugh. We grin at each other. I reach out and wipe a smear of stew off of the tip of her nose. She flicks a grain of rice from the corner of my mouth. Heh. Whoops.

We pack up our supplies in companionable silence and I feel a little sad as I roll up the sleeping bag so I can stuff it into one of the backpacks. The blanket goes into the other. I don't like that implication even though I know it is safer to divide up our supplies… just in case.

Katniss hands me the hunting knife, collects her bow and arrows, and we're ready to go. We stop at the river to wash up and, splashing in the river current with water frothing up around my elbows goes that extra mile in waking me up. I rinse the back of my neck and scrub my face. I still don't have any patchy beard stubble to deal with, which is weird, and it makes me wonder if I ever will. What day is today? The tenth? Eleventh? The Games will be winding up soon. I may yet die before I ever need to shave again.

Yipee.

Worrying at this point will gain me nothing, so I resolve not to think about it too much and busy myself with filling up the water bottle. That done, Katniss leads the way across a shallow bend in the river and up into a thick forest. Today's hunting ground, I guess.

She walks soundlessly, arrow nocked. My feet seem to find and snap every single stick in the whole damn universe. After a few yards, I stop. It kills me to give this adventure up, especially since Katniss had invited me along, but I know she won't be able to shoot anything so long as I'm scaring away the game.

It only takes two steps before she pauses and turns her frown on me. "Come on."

I shake my head. "You go," I mouth. "I'm too loud."

Exasperated, she gestures for me to follow her.

_Okay, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you._

I make a concentrated effort to place my feet better, but I give up on other observations. This becomes apparent when I almost smack into Katniss' back. She's so quiet that I hadn't even noticed when she'd _stopped _walking. God.

She points and there, about eight or nine yards away, a sizable bird perches on a tree limb, grooming its feathers. I've never seen this type of creature before. Maybe it's a groosling? Wasn't that the name she'd put to the poultry she'd tried to get me to eat at the river a few days ago?

Katniss places a hand on my arm, and I blink when she nudges the backpack straps off of my shoulders. I can't quite figure out why she'd doing that – surely if she needed something, she could just unzip the pocket and take it out – but then she slides her bow into my grasp. What?

Suddenly, she's slipping behind me and I find myself bracketed by her arms. Encircled. Her chest presses against my back and I know I'm not really feeling her warmth against me. That's my own body heat being reflected back to me inside my jacket. Disappointment makes me a little slow on the uptake: I don't immediately notice it when she nudges my bow arm up or when, grasping my other hand, she guides my fingers to the string. But the instant the plastic fletch brushes my fingertips, I startle. She can't mean to let me take the shot, can she? I'll just waste the arrow. I know we can't afford that.

I shift toward her, shaking my head, but she lifts up on her toes, fits her jaw against the corner of mine and whispers in my ear. "Together. Trust me."

Oh, God. I try to hold the bow steady.

"Sight along the shaft," she murmurs. "Follow the arrowhead to the target—" At this point, she adjusts the angle of my wrist slightly. Her bow arm tangles with mine, holding me fast and burning me alive. Her other hand covers mine on the string and we draw back in sync. "Good. Now breathe." I do. "Again."

Her face presses against my ear, her temple to the side of my head. I can feel her lashes brush my hair when she blinks; she's aligning the shot. A sudden rush of relief and confidence strengths me. She won't let me waste an arrow. I know this, so I know it's fine. It'll be fine. I trust her.

She coaches on a wisp of breath, "Breathe in… out…"

I never want this moment to end.

"In… out… let go."

I release the arrow, marveling at how wobbly and flimsy the weapon really is and how firmly Katniss holds me to my course. Her hands and arms and cheek keep me steady for that critical instant until the arrow has left our combined grasp.

And then the sound of metal puncturing feathers and flesh punches through the silence. I watch the bird's death spiral into the brush, but if asked later, there's no way I'd be able to tell you a single detail about it. I'm still standing in Katniss' arms.

"Congratulations." She sounds proud, vindicated, and a little full of herself. I barely hear her. Her hands are lingering on me, her weight pressing against my back, her lips so close to my ear. The sunlight sprinkles us with a dappled pattern, painting us together, capturing us in a single moment, entwined and still. Just another tree in the woods wound in vines, both reaching for the light.

As she starts to step away, I look over my shoulder, my right hand diving to catch her fingers. "It was your shot," I correct.

She shakes her head. "Your grip—" She touches the hand still wrapped around the bow. "Your release—" Somehow, my grasp on her fingers gets turned inside out so that she's holding mine. "Your sight—" Our gazes meet and, oh God, she is so close and yet so far. Mere inches. Miles. "Your shot," she insists with a small smile.

_Yours._ The word echoes so forcefully in my mind that I hold my breath waiting for it to roll through the forest like thunder. I am hers. I've always been hers. Whatever my reasons for being fascinated with her in the past, whatever has obscured the truth over the years, nothing has ever managed to change that simple fact.

She rubs my shoulder once and steps away. I watch, heart somersaulting, as she lopes off to scoop up her – my – _our _kill.

"It's not '_no contest,'"_ Katniss tells me as she pulls out the arrow and ties the bird to her belt with wire. _No contest?_ What is she— oh, right: the storytelling versus hunting comparison. "It's just… different."

"Hunting is necessary," I summarize, wondering if she will always prefer the woods to things like evenings spent in front of a fireplace with the crackle of a flame and the murmur of soft voices. Something I have half a chance of giving her. Do I really have anything to offer her? Anything she'd want?

She looks up at me and shakes her head. "So are stories."

A layer of worry burns away. I change my answer. "It's silent," I say.

"Can't have silence all the time," she argues. "It's balanced."

She's right. It's all balanced. Stories and silence, hope and death, care and burning, love and fear. I let out a sigh.

"One groosling will be enough for dinner, but we should try to hunt a little more," Katniss softly lectures.

Maybe it's her schoolmarm tone, but suddenly I _have to _gesture for the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and tell her, "Okay. I'll take the bow."

The look on her face is _precious._ I keep my own expression perfectly straight for as long as I can, then I let my smile eke out. "I'm just kidding." I pass the bow back to her and offer with a crooked grin, "I'll go pick some stuff."

As I turn to head back in the direction of the river, I pause and glance over my shoulder. I'm just in time to see her bemused smile and catch her huff of laughter. I wink. See? I can communicate in silence, even if I can't walk through a forest that way.

Not five minutes later, a berry thicket practically jumps out at me. Finally a bit of luck. It's about damn time. The fruit looks like the berries that Rue had introduced me to and, as I contemplate the meager offerings on the spindly branches, I'm sad all over again. I hadn't asked Katniss about Rue's death. Maybe I don't want to know, and I certainly don't want to upset Katniss again.

I pull a berry off a scraggly branch and roll it between my fingers. I'm not really looking forward to eating these. I know I'll just end up remembering Rue, who is gone. Not to mention the fact that the taste has probably been permanently associated with dark, dank caves, brain-frying fevers, and the stink of certain death.

Oh, joy.

But we have to eat and – for that happy event to occur – berries have to be picked, so I get on with it.

I'm still thinking about Rue, though. And Katniss' grief. I remember pulling her jacket hood over her head and rubbing her braided hair through the material, shielding her from the cameras.

In the process of shucking off my jacket, I glance down at the collar, where Katniss had burrowed that night and gasped her apologies. The memory is strangely stretched and warped due to the fever I'd been fighting, but I'm pretty sure that moment had really happened… which means that Rue is really dead. If only she weren't. If only Katniss' grief had been a product of my imagination, which can be confusingly vivid at times. Baxter used to get a real kick out of teasing me for it. In fact, just last month we got into it—

_"You bake like you're gonna pull a treasure out of the oven, Peety."_

_"I am. This isn't just an ordinary batch of cookies."_

_"Oh, hell. You're making those gingerbread girls again. Seriously, what are they gonna do? Dance a jig?"_

_"Maybe. Who knows what they'll do once they're frosted. Maybe they'll sing the Valley Song."_

_"Hah. Right. Maybe they'll give you a kiss and turn you into a gingerbread boy. Maybe frost your cookie for you."_

_"You have disturbing thoughts about baked goods, Bax."_

_"Says the guy fondling the gingerbread."_

That had been just one of countless verbal sparring sessions.

I'm chuckling as I remember how Duff used to team up with me when I was ready to get even. A joke would lead to an idea which would blossom into the perfect set-up for comeuppance. Sometimes he'd even run interference so I didn't get squished by older and bigger brother Baxter when I went too far.

_"Peety… What the hell is a headless cookie doing in my dresser drawer with my smalls?"_

_"She's the only one who'd have you, seeing as how she can't see your mug, hear your barking, or think for herself."_

A growl from Bax. A snort of laughter from Duff at the top on the stairs on lookout duty.

_"Aren't you gonna eat her? Never keep a lady waiting, Bax."_

A wrestling match in the hall. A shriek from our mother. Another half dozen chores to be completed before dinnertime. A satisfied smirk on my face as I did them, stomach growling, because paying him back for the humiliation had been worth it.

Good times. Good times.

The mound of berries on my spread-out jacket grows steadily with every trip I make. The bushes are still thin – it'll be weeks before the fruit hits its peak – so I follow the hint of one full, dark berry after another, shouldering my way deeper into the thicket.

The silence of the forest makes me reflective and I revisit my tenth birthday which had been unusually good, and then I recall the first day Katniss had shown up at school with her hair in a single braid rather than two, and there'd been that one time in kindergarten when Delly had tried (unsuccessfully) to get me to let her give me a makeover using her mother's cosmetics… I have to keep telling myself to _pay attention_ to my surroundings because, any minute now, Cato could come up behind me and—

_Boom!_

What?

Was that—?

The cannon.

_No! Katniss!_

I jerk upright. The low-hanging tree branches poke and scrape my scalp, and I realize just how deeply concealed in the berry thicket I am. I barely hear my own breaths coming in heaving wheezes as I shove my way back through the brush. It takes a moment before I figure out that I'll go faster if I duck down and move beneath the tangled sea of branches rather than through them.

I go as fast as I can, hunched over and scrambling. My heart is about to burst from my mouth, roll over my tongue and land with a wet, throbbing splat on the ground—

And then I hear her scream.

"Peeta!"

Oh, God. Thank God. She's alive.

But she's in trouble.

_I'm coming just hold on!_

I would have said the words if I could, if terror hadn't already wrapped its skeletal fingers around my neck and started squeezing, if some thin and shadowy thing in me weren't warning me to hold onto the element of surprise for as long as possible. If Cato is chasing her, maybe I can get close enough to—

"PEETA!"

Panic. Pure panic. Katniss is panicking.

I tear myself free of the bushes and take a running step in her direction just as she sprints into view.

We collide. I don't see Cato. All I see are her eyes, wide with terror. And then her face, drawn and pale.

"Are you okay?" I gasp.

Her hands clutch my arms, move to my throat, my shoulders. "I heard the cannon and—I thought you—!"

I gape at her stupidly, overwhelmed by her frantic touch. I should say something. I'm supposed to be good at saying something, aren't I? I'm the liar, after all. I should tell her everything's all right. I should say that we're fine, that nothing bad is going to happen to either of us, that we'll both be back in Twelve in a few days—

Her gaze darts down to my hand, to the berries still cradled in my palm – why am I even still holding them? – and then it happens so suddenly that I go completely blank. Something harsh pulls her expression, sparks a deeply imbedded and instinctual fear in me. I don't know what I've done wrong, but it must be bad. She's looking at me like—like—

A shudder ripples through me and, in an instant, I'm the _old_ me, the Peeta who stammered and apologized and shrank back from his mother's fury.

I stutter, "N-no, no, I d-didn't—"

That's definitely fury in her eyes. I catch my breath, unable to think.

She slaps the berries from my hand. I don't register the fact that it doesn't hurt. All I see is the motion of her arm coming down between us. I flinch.

"That's nightlock!" she screams, her throat locking up and choking her. "You'd be dead in a minute!"

"I—I—I didn't know." I don't hear her words. Or, I guess I do, but I don't really understand them. I understand that she hit me, and I expect it to start stinging any moment now. I understand that she screamed at me and something is my fault, but I don't know what. What did I do? I'm starting to tremble. Frozen to my core. The world has shifted and I don't know where that leaves me.

"You scared me to death!" It's only after her arms are wound around my neck and her weight is warm and solid against my chest that I realize I'd seen unshed tears in her eyes. "Damn you—!"

Oh.

Oh, God.

The world had shifted, all right, and it has left me in Katniss' arms. She clings to me and I wrap my arms around her: body, braid, backpack, quiver, everything.

"I'm sorry," I mutter against her hair, inhaling the sweaty-woodsy-musky warmth rising off of her skin. She's so warm and her arms are around me and she was just scared not… not… My mind fractures. She forgives me. I can't—I just—I don't understand. I clutch her to me and let her strength envelop me, steady me, calm me.

"I'm sorry," I say again, repeating it like a mantra, "I'm sorry." They're meaningless words. Empty placations. I've always known that, but they've been my first line of defense for so long…

Once upon a time, I'd used them to appease my mother, but I'm not in Twelve anymore and that Peeta is gone. I'm different now. I'm better, stronger than I used to be. Or am I? I choke on a phlegmy breath. The words are the same but, hearing myself murmuring them in an endless loop, I realize that I don't mean them the same way I used to.

I _am _sorry, but not for making a mistake or for being clumsy or stupid. I'm sorry because I'd panicked. I'm sorry I'd actually _believed-expected-assumed_ that Katniss would try to hurt me. I'm so sorry I'm still broken. I'm so sorry I can't be better.

"I'm sorry," I whisper before inhaling deeply.

Katniss leans back and hovers her fingers over my mouth. "Stop." She searches my face and I fight against the burn of tears pressing into the back of my eyes. "You're here."

"I am," I answer, sighing out a breath and letting my eyes slide shut. I'm so thankful she's okay – _we're _okay – that I think I might just fall to the ground in pieces. Her hand curls around the back of my neck. The other cups my jaw. Our foreheads touch.

She murmurs, her breath kissing my lips, "You're still with me."

_Yes._ "Always, Katniss. Always."

* * *

**Manny's Hunger Games Fanfic Rec's**

"Legend" by HGRomance - for the impromptu archery lesson which is one of the steamiest UST scenes I have ever read. (I've been waiting to recommend this for AGES, honestly.)


	23. The Cornucopia

Theme music: "To You I Bestow" by Mundy

* * *

**The Cornucopia**

The girl from Five is dead.

I crouch down beside her body, my gaze moving from her berry-juice-stained lips to the fruit still cupped in her outstretched palm.

"I thought they were the same as the berries Rue found," I whisper by way of excuse. I know that there is no excuse, but that's all I have.

"The juice is too dark," Katniss points out softly, her fingers briefly brushing my jacket sleeve. "Timber berries are bright red inside."

The girl's mouth is smeared with a deep, skin-staining purple. I have similar blotches on my hands. Katniss had emptied the entire water bottle over me after we'd both calmed down, and I know she's going to make me scrub my hands down with silt at the river once we get back there. She's already ordered me not to touch my face under any circumstances, at least not until she gives the okay.

"I didn't even know she was following me." What a waste of life… and it's all my fault. How could I have been so stupid? Why hadn't I just _paid attention?_

"She was clever."

"Too clever." I make it sound like this is all her fault, but it isn't. It's mine. It's the Gamemakers'. It's President Snow's. "She's my kill, isn't she? I don't even know her name."

Katniss doesn't either. "I'm sorry."

I look up and our gazes lock. She's startlingly close, but I don't even think about closing the distance between us. There's a sudden and impenetrable wall surrounding me. I'm responsible for someone else's death. The night before the Games, I'd expected that I would be eventually. I'd tried to make peace with myself, accept the inevitable, but now here I am and there is no peace. There is only emptiness.

Katniss looks away, gives me a moment to just breathe. I appreciate it. I need it.

She nudges my elbow as she reaches forward and tips the berries carefully into her own palm before pouring them into a pocket of her jacket.

"What are you doing?"

With a shrug, she speculates, "Maybe Cato likes berries, too."

I let out a dry, miserable cough of a laugh. "Sure. Why not? What's one more?"

"Hey." Her hand presses against my shoulder, angling me toward her. "This wasn't your fault."

Maybe I hadn't deliberately set out to deceive this girl whose name I don't know, but… "I'm still accountable."

Katniss stares back at me, her eyes emptying until the corresponding ache in my chest pulses in sympathy. "Marvel," she tells me softly with false impassivity, "Glimmer, the boy from Three, both the boy and girl from Four, the boy from Nine—" She struggles to swallow and her voice is barely there when she whispers the last name, "Rue."

Oh my God. How had Katniss' kill list gotten so damn long? Why hadn't I done more for her? Saved her from some of that? All my good intentions are shit.

"So many." It's not until the muscles in Katniss' throat tense that I realize I'd been the one to speak. Another apology rushes to my lips. I know I've hurt her. Her expression might be neutral, but her eyes are drowning and her neck is straining.

"Not officially," she admits.

I slide an arm around her and pull her to my side, tilting our foreheads together for the second time in the last ten minutes. I close my eyes. I almost reach for her hand and bring it to my lips for a kiss, but then I remember the poison staining my fingers. Well, it's not as if a kiss could really heal the kind of injuries she has sustained. I can't kiss this hurt and make it better. Nobody can.

When she moves to stand, I let my arm drop. It's time to go. There are only three of us left. It'll be over soon. Today, maybe. Dread begins to beat softly in time with my pulse. The worst is yet to come. I know it.

We get a taste of that when we reach the river bank. The flowing, rushing water is gone. There are only a few muddy puddles and weak trickles running downhill.

Katniss doesn't hesitate to haul me into the nearly-barren riverbed. She squats opposite me and, grabbing my hands, plunges our fingers into the largest remaining reservoir of water. I let her rub the silt into my skin, working the mud into the creases over my knuckles and the lines on my palm before scrubbing under my fingernails. She is not particularly gentle, but she is thorough and she doesn't break the skin.

When she releases my hands, I return the favor and scour hers.

It hits me suddenly that Katniss will let me return her favors. She has no problem with that. I think of the bread I'd given her that rainy day and I think of my interview with Caesar. In both cases, I'd taken the initiative to help her without a previously established debt to pay back. And, in both cases, she had not been comfortable with my efforts.

Huh.

I squint at her as another piece of her puzzling enigma falls into place. Although this is not the best time or place for a revelation like this, I acknowledge that about her and resolve to not let her get away with it in the future. I can't wait around for her to do me a favor just so I can help her out. We're partners. She'd promised me that back in the Capitol. Partners don't tally favors like they're part of some kind of sport or competition. This is not a wrestling match. I'm not trying to pin her down. She needs to understand this.

"We need a plan," Katniss murmurs, "against Cato."

"I know." I admit through gritted teeth, "I don't know how much good I'll be. He's so sick of my bullshit he'll probably run me through on sight."

She contributes unhappily, "And he knows I have the bow and arrows."

I look up. "He doesn't know how good you are, though, does he?"

"He might," she admits, pulling her hands from my grasp and twisting to the side to rinse them in another puddle of water. "I shot the boy from Four at the Feast from a distance of fifty yards, give or take, from the top of a tree."

"Shit."

"He was about to take out Foxface." I need a second to switch gears. I'd been reacting to my own visualization of the shot, my mind going blank as I combined that distance with the angle and the unsteady base she'd been forced to shoot from. I hadn't meant to imply that she _shouldn't _have taken the shot.

"Foxface?" I echo, still trying to get my bearings.

"That's what I call the girl from Five. Because she's—" _Was._ "—cunning."

"Like a fox."

"Right."

Okay, input acquired. Now I back up to confirm some facts. "So you saved Foxface at the Feast?"

"I had to. We'd made a temporary alliance."

This I have got to hear. "How did you manage that?"

"I channeled my inner Peeta." She smirks and sends me a sidelong glance.

I chuckle despite myself.

Katniss explains, "She was the tribute least likely to draw unwanted attention when she picked up her pack."

I can see the logic there. Why worry about her when the boy from Four, Thresh, Cato, and Clove were still around? Hell, Katniss probably would have been a target if she'd— But, wait. She'd come back injured, so she'd been a target anyway. "What happened? The unabridged version," I request.

She tells me the whole story, from beginning to end, and I'm impressed. Her strategy had been brilliant. But— "I just wish I'd been there to back you up." I say this as we skirt a sunny clearing and I have to squint against the glare of the sun.

"You kind of were," she offers matter-of-factly. "I had a really good reason for getting out of there alive."

I want to hear her say the words. I want to have that. I want to know exactly why she needed to risk her life to save mine, but I refuse to ask her now. It'll keep until later, when we're home, when there aren't any cameras around.

In the meantime, I throw an arm playfully over her shoulders and steer her toward me. I give her a big, noisy kiss on the temple. "Impressed you with my crazy mad listening skills back in the cave, did I?"

She snorts. "How did you guess?"

"It was the unicorns," I confide smugly.

Katniss rolls her eyes and bumps me in the ribs with her elbow. I drop my arm not because of embarrassment, but because it's just not safe to be in each other's way like this for long. I need my knife arm free and she needs to be able to shoot.

She snarks, "Actually, I think it was how you were so quietly attentive the whole time."

I love her sarcasm, especially when she uses that cheery tone of voice to deliver it.

"Well, as listeners go, I _am_ irreplaceable." I give her a wink.

"I was thinking more along the lines of annoying and prone to interrupting pe—"

"Really? I interrupt a lot?"

Katniss briefly covers her eyes with her hand before wiping the amusement from her face. "Yes. You're probably not even aware that you're doing it."

"What, like, right now? Or five minutes ago? Or back by the river when—"

Katniss stomps to a halt and grabs my shoulders, turning me to face her. I grin and enjoy watching her struggle to hide her smile. "Stop. Don't make me send you back to the cave without any supper."

"You wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't I?"

I shake my head and whisper conspiratorially, "You'd miss me."

"You're sure?"

I hedge my bets. "And you'd make me cry." I give her my best Adorable Me expression, collect her hand and press her palm to the center of my chest. "You don't want to see me cry, do you?"

My earnest plea makes her lips twitch upward. "I wouldn't. You'd be in the cave."

"With the hungry bears."

"There are no bears in the cave."

"There might be. You'll protect me, right?"

"Oh my God, Peeta. Just—" She holds up her free hand, consults the sky for guidance of the divine variety, and then demands, "What the hell are we talking about?"

I lift her hand from where it still rests on my chest and brush my lips across the back of it. "No idea. Are you having as much fun as I am?"

"Oh, more. Definitely more." Her tone is droll, but she says it with a smile, which makes me happy so I don't bother arguing with her.

"Let's go ahead and stop here," Katniss suggests, gesturing to a small hollow ringed by trees. "We have a bird to roast."

I deal with the fire and she plucks and cleans the kill, using the knife I hand over to her. She takes a seat right next to me, which is both unexpected and welcome. I would have thought she'd want to sit across from me so we could cover the entire 360-degree view of our surroundings. But, hell, I'm not gonna complain. We watch the flames lick the spitted groosling for a few moments, but she doesn't say anything at all. I turn toward her, take her hand in mine, and I open my mouth to ask—

She leans in, her lips brushing my ear as she tells me very, very quietly, "I can't hear anything out of my left ear."

That's about as far from sweet nothings as you can get. "What?"

Her fingers loosen, tangle, unthread, and interlock with mine. I can feel her weight from the point of contact through our shoulders. "When I blew up the supplies, I was too close. My ear… I can't hear anything with it."

And she doesn't want anyone to know. I don't blame her. It's not safe. If the Gamemakers favor Cato over us, they could use this against her. I press my cheek to the top of her head. "Oh. Okay," I murmur, as if she'd been requesting time for a nap.

She whispers, "Stay on my left? Cover me?"

"Of course."

I brush my lips across her forehead and reach up to tuck wisps of escaped hair behind her ears. My hand eventually cradles her head against mine and she sighs. She sounds content, here with me. Happy. I know that's what I am in spite of everything.

I don't know how I'll ever go back to my normal life in Twelve after this. I don't think I could even if I wanted to. I need her next to me. I need to be this version of myself who has won her trust. I need to keep this closeness because my old life is barren and echoingly empty compared with what I have now. Katniss' friendship is immeasurably more valuable when weighed against my interactions with the kids from town. How had I ever convinced myself that those shallow conversations had been worthy of my time? Life is fleeting. Time is always counting down, running out, dwindling. I have to make the most of it.

I tilt my chin up and press a soft kiss to the very same temple I'd comically smooched earlier. Katniss looks away from the fire to quickly glance at me. I can't read her expression, but that's okay. She doesn't have to respond. I just need her to _know._

She squeezes my fingers and we wait in silence for dinner to be done.

It's nearly sunset when we finish eating and stamp out the fire. We'd added the cheese and stale bread rolls to tonight's fare so now we have nothing left in our food stores. Katniss doesn't comment on this and neither do I. It's pretty obvious that events have been set in motion. We are being driven toward the lake, in the same direction as Cato. This is it. Our last night in the arena. We have to be ready for anything.

My imagination seizes the word and begins churning out a myriad of disturbing possibilities. It doesn't help that I have over a decade's worth of Hunger Games recap footage to draw from, either. They could drown us, bury us in mud, set the arena on fire again, unleash a plague of poisonous insects or—

A heavy panting in the gathering darkness makes me pause. I check that my own mouth is closed and glance at Katniss. She is tense beside me, bow and arrow at the ready. She hears it, too. Something is stalking us. Just at the edge of earshot, I can hear footsteps of the four-legged creature variety roaming to and fro.

Why isn't it charging?

Oh, right. Probably because we haven't gotten to the Cornucopia yet.

I consider proposing that Katniss and I climb a tree but then, in the distance, I hear the wild snarl of a predator and the roar of its prey: Cato. Sounds of battle slam through the forest from not too far away. It is brief and there is no cannon shot following it.

That can't be good.

I don't have to ask what that was, what this is. This is the finale.

We move at a cautious, steady pace toward the clearing. I hold my breath hoping that whatever is out there, herding us toward the lake, is satisfied with our progress. Katniss places her feet with practiced ease, not even glancing down. I, on the other hand, continue with my campaign to snap no less than one million twigs before daybreak.

The hell.

If I weren't so Goddamn terrified, my face would be so red with embarrassment I'd look sunburned. But I can't bother worrying about that at the moment because suddenly everything – every bird, insect, and breeze – goes completely and utterly still.

I clutch the knife in my hand tighter, sticking to Katniss' left side, hoping I'll be fast enough, strong enough to help her compensate. Hoping I can protect her from whatever is lurking out there. Its gaze is a weight upon my chest. I try not to wheeze, but that's kind of hard to keep from doing when you know the darkness is looking _right back at you._

Katniss scans the woods and I perversely wonder if the Gamemakers' new and exciting addition to the arena is waiting for her to lower her guard before attacking. I hope not. I really, really hope not. Being hunted by something that intelligent will not be pleasant.

I keep watch on the woods to our left. Katniss turns to sweep her gaze over the right.

A slight shift in the shadows just beyond my range of sight makes me squint, lean forward, hope like holy hell that what I'm almost seeing is a squirrel or a rabbit or—

Goddamnholyshit_whatisthat!?_

I don't know, but it's on me. All two hundred pounds of it. Muscle and claws and teeth and snarls. I thrash, slashing blindly with my knife, slicing only empty air.

Gamey stench.

Cooling spittle.

Fetid breath.

A squeal of pain.

"Come on!" Katniss calls. I scramble away as the beast – something vaguely dog-like but infinitely more deadly – paws at the arrow in its meaty neck. Katniss' grip on my jacket hood orients me and then I'm on my feet, barreling through the woods after her, terrified that I'll lose my footing, crash to the ground, and be torn apart.

I can hear soft sounds of horror – breathless whimpers – and I suspect they're coming from me, but I focus on following Katniss' trail, leaping over fallen logs, ducking branches, and dodging tangles of brush, which suddenly thickens.

An eerie baying fills the night. I glance over my shoulder. The creature – the _thing _the Gamemakers have sent to kill us – is coming.

I stumble into the clearing. Katniss is already three full strides in front of me and gaining speed as she sprints for the Cornucopia. I can only hope it is high enough and strong enough to withstand a siege like the one that's hot on our heels. I strain to put one foot in front of the other faster than I had before, but my left leg is sluggish. It doesn't hurt – there's far too much adrenaline in my system for me to feel pain at this point – but the muscle is just not responding fast enough when I move to take a step. I'm limping, lagging behind—

I'm not going to make it.

Katniss skids to a halt next to the Cornucopia, but there's no one there to boost her up. She is going to die just like me.

She seems to realize the problem at the same moment I do. Turning, she sets an arrow against the string of her bow, aims right at me, and fires.

So this is it. She'll kill me out of mercy. I can't say I'm sorry to have it end this way. Better this than a repeat of that up-close-and-too-personal moment back there in the forest.

The arrow zooms toward me, past me, kissing my cheek with a swift breeze, and then a gurgling yip cuts across the meadow. Oh. Oh, God. She'd just shot one. In the dark. Bull's eye not two inches to the side of my head.

I'll be impressed later.

She nocks, sights, and fires a second arrow. Shit, how many of those things are behind me? More than one, that's for damn sure.

Another whimper. Another fallen beast. I'm nearly there.

"Get ready!" I holler at her, stuffing the knife in my jacket pocket. She slings her bow over her shoulder, reaches for a handhold and lifts her foot in preparation for my hands. I Goddamn _toss _her up on top of that stupid Cornucopia.

The instant her boot tread leaves my hands, I'm reaching for the same handhold, bracing my foot against the metal, reaching up, hoping-trusting-needing—

_Katniss!_

And then she's there. Her hands reaching for mine, hauling me up with more strength than I would have ever guessed she could have. I scramble for a higher, better, firmer handhold. Yes! Got it. Now my foot and—

Three sword blades rake down the back of my leg in unison.

I scream.

Katniss pulls.

I push and kick, gaining some leverage against something that feels like a jaw full of sharp teeth, and haul myself up over the edge.

Oh my God.

I think I need a moment.

I'm not given one.

Katniss gasps and suddenly her hand is wrenched in my grasp. What? Are they here, on the Cornucopia? Are they that big? That strong?

I scrabble for her as she slides away from me. Catch her hand in both of mine. I try to brace my feet on something, anything. I slip. There's blood everywhere.

_Think about it later!_

There's a snarl and a sharp snap from the beasts below us as I swing Katniss toward me. She rolls across the cold metal, tears her hand from my grasp, surges to her feet, and launches herself at something beyond my range of vision. I twist off of my back and onto my side, tucking my knees under me, readying myself to stand when I see who it is she's fighting.

It's Cato. He's bleeding from several deep scratches in his face but his body seems fit. What? Why? Doesn't matter. The knife is in my hand. I lunge forward, bringing it down against his back as he wraps his hands around Katniss' throat.

The blade slides ineffectually over his clothing. No, not clothing. _Armor._

Shit.

I forget the knife and wrap my arms around his torso, levering myself back and throwing him off. I can hear Katniss coughing-gasping-sobbing for breath. She's okay. Can't let Cato have another shot at her. I tackle him around the knees. Something slams into my head. Something metal. The flat side of Cato's stupid sword.

The Cornucopia shakes when he crashes down onto his back.

_Don't give up yet. Go for the finish. End this._ _Now._

He rolls onto his feet and swings the sword at me, the blade soaring up, aiming to take my head off.

I hunch down and ram him in the belly with my shoulder. The sword clangs, skids, tumbles over the edge.

I've got him now. I move in to pin him down.

_End this. Right now._

And somehow I wind up with an armored arm choking off my air supply. What? How? I'm on my feet. Cato's hostage. Shit, shit, _shit._

_Katniss?_

She's there, bow lifted, arrow readied.

_Take the shot!_

Cato echoes my thoughts and adds, "Then we'd both go down and you'd win."

_That's fine._

I want to tell her it's okay. I never really expected to survive anyway. I gulp down a breath when my left leg buckles under me and Cato has to shift his grasp. My leg. Oh, God it's so cold. I'm leaking heat again.

This is not good.

Katniss continues to hesitate. What is she waiting for? If Cato doesn't finish the job of choking me, I'll bleed out right here.

More talking. Cato has never sounded so unbalanced. He's completely unhinged. His hands shift: one on the back of my head, the other on my jaw. He's going to snap my neck.

_Shoot him, Katniss!_

She doesn't. Maybe he's moving and shifting too much. Maybe I am. She won't take the stupid shot. What the hell?

_Because you promised not to die on her. She promised to help you. No matter what._

Goddamn it!

I have to figure out a way out of this. Katniss is counting on me. I have to _focus!_

Cato says something else. Desperation in his voice. Maybe tears.

Last chance. I uncurl my index finger from around his wrist and I have to concentrate to reach my goal, but I do. I press it against the back of Cato's bare hand, smearing a bloody fingerprint.

_Best I can do for a bull's eye, dearling,_ I think somewhat deliriously. Her gaze meets mine. I nod once. _Shoot straight._

She does.

The arrow stabs into his hand and, for a moment, I'm not even sure he'd felt it, but then his body jerks, his hold on my neck loosens. I pivot. Elbow-to-gut. Fist-to-head. Shoulder-to-chest.

He falls.

He tumbles over the edge of the Cornucopia and into the milling pack of beasts. I think I hear his scream before my eyes roll up into my head and I pitch forward into nothingness.

* * *

Notes: "Dearling" is not misspelled. I've decided to use atypical endearments in this story. (Perhaps you remember Portia calling Peeta "sweetness" back in _The Interview?)_ Also, I like how Katniss is a hunter and Peeta's endearment of her sounds like "deerling" (sort of like a fawn). I believe "bokkie" is used in South Africa as an endearment which means "little doe" or "little buck"… as in a springbok.

FURTHER READING:  
"Alone in a Crowded Room" by wollaston (work-in-progress) - because loving Peeta is inevitable and also his strength is the quiet kind which can never be undermined completely.


	24. The Last Resort

Theme song: "Never Let Me Go" by Florence + The Machine

* * *

**The Last Resort**

I groan. It's cold and I need to puke.

_Ow. Shit. My leg!_

"Shh," Katniss breathes shakily into my ear. "It's ok-kay. Y-you're okay."

I don't think I am, but I make an effort to play along. The instant I open my eyes, I roll over and empty my stomach all over the ice-cold metal that I'm lying on. Oh, fun. Super. Best night of my life, that's what this is.

I feel Katniss' hand between my shoulder blades, easing me back down. "S-stay still," she instructs roughly. A soft, plaintive whimper punctuates the request and it takes me a minute to realize that it hadn't come from her. It hadn't come from me, either.

Where the hell am I?

My leg throbs below the knee. Oh God. The sword. I must have gotten stabbed again. Repeatedly. Shit, that hurts.

"Katniss?"

"I'm h-here," she says, her teeth chattering. I force my eyes to stay open long enough to take stock of our surroundings. I'm lying on top of that damn sleeping bag again. The grimy, heat-reflective blanket is spread over me and Katniss is huddled against my right side, shivering so hard I think she's about ready to shatter.

I pull her closer, running my hands over her arms and back, trying to puzzle it all out. It's night. It's freezing. There's a metal surface beneath us – the Cornucopia – and sounds of pain and fighting from nearby – Cato.

"Are you okay?" I ask her.

"C-c-cold," she manages and that's when I realize her clothes seem to be lacking in layers. I run my hands over her jacket-clad shoulders and arms just to be sure. "What happened to your shirt?"

"It's uh-uh-otherwise oc-c-cupied," she forces out.

I'm too tired to ask. My leg hurts too much. Screw it.

"Zip yourself up in my jacket with me," I order.

She shakes her head. "W-w-won't fit."

"I'll make you fit."

"S-s-s-sleep-ing bag," she says, and I get it.

"Right." Of course. I fumble for the zipper and nearly pass out when I move to slide my legs inside.

"C-c-careful!" Her hands move to my left knee, guiding my leg into the bag, and I grind my molars together, willing myself not to succumb to the pain and pass out. Katniss drags the blanket in with her, squashes herself against my right side, and I manage to zip us in.

For a few minutes, all I can do is lie there and clutch her to me, trying to share my body heat. What little of it I have.

"I'm injured again, aren't I?" I guess.

"Y-yes," she answers.

"Left leg? Below the knee?"

She nods into my shoulder.

I think about it a bit more. Had there been a sword? I remember a blow to the head, the flash of steel, but… "Not the sword this time?"

"N-n-no. Muttations scratched you."

Ah, yes. Now I remember… and I wish I didn't. "Am I still bleeding?"

"A little. Used my shirt and my last arrow. Tourniquet," she answers, which explains the unbearable throbbing.

"Damn," I sigh and, even though I'm probably dying, I can't help but comment, "You mean you took your shirt off and I missed it?"

She growls. I'm sure there's a scowl in there, too, but I'm too exhausted to look for it. And, to be perfectly honest, it's probably better if I don't make eye contact.

Katniss bites out, "I'm sure they'll play it back for you during the recap. So don't die on me."

"Okay." I quiet down for a moment, but as soon as I do, the pitiful moans and pained shrieks from the ground below envelop us. Shit. Cato is getting torn apart down there. I roll my head away from Katniss just in case I need to hurl again. My mouth feels dry and tastes like crap, but I know we don't have any water. The juices in my stomach squirm and swirl again as a wet crunch and a gasping scream of agony tear through the night. Katniss' hands rub my chest and arms. I focus on that. It helps.

When I think I can speak safely, I ask, "How long was I out of it?"

"Less than an hour, I think." Katniss' shivers are irregular and mild now. She's warming up, thank God. "It sounded like they separated him from his sword just before you came to."

I don't say anything. I stare up at the night sky as a boy begs for a merciful death from monsters incapable of compassion.

"Why don't they just finish him?" she demands.

"He's wearing armor," I answer. I don't speculate on how those mutts are probably chewing through it, or crushing him inside it, or tearing out pieces of him through the ends of the sleeves and pant legs...

"How long can this go on?" she despairs softly into my neck. Icy droplets of spilled tears kiss my jaw. I can feel moisture at the corners of my eyes, too, burning my chilled skin.

"As long as they want," I whisper back. "Unless you have a clear line of sight to him?"

"No arrows left."

"The knife?"

"I can't throw that far. They have him cornered inside the Cornucopia."

"Shit."

"If I had some, I'd fling it," she informs me and I laugh. It jostles my leg which makes it hurt like hell and that makes me groan, but I can't help it. Katniss' jokes are rare and deserve a laugh. Besides, I am her devoted audience, aren't I? So that kind of makes it my job.

"Funny girl," I compliment her. "That's one of the many things—" I bite off the rest of what I was about to say. Shit, had I very nearly mentioned how much I love her here? _Now?_ As monsters rip another human being to shreds only a stone's throw away? How sick is that?

"Use the arrow in my tourniquet," I tell her, suddenly remembering it.

She shakes her head. "No."

"I'll be fine." They'll send a hovercraft for us as soon as Cato is dead, as soon as we've won.

Katniss buries her face in my armpit and her fingers curl tightly around my biceps. Okay, so I guess that's a refusal. She won't gamble with my life to put Cato out of his misery. I know I should argue the point, but I don't.

"Hey, I'm ticklish there," I tell her, striving to keep the sounds of misery at bay.

"Where?" she mutters, nose still burrowed between my arm and torso.

"In my pride, of course. No girls allowed."

She snorts. "You're talking nonsense."

"And now I've gotten you to talk nonsense with me. That means I get bonus points."

She doesn't seem to have a response to this, so I quickly say, "Hey, remember our last test in Panem History?"

"Yeah," she admits. "Kind of."

"Let's talk about that."

"What for?"

I purposefully avoid answering for a minute. A full minute. A very long full minute.

"Okay," she agrees. "Let's talk about history."

I must be the worst person on the planet as I quote facts and figures and debate the possibility of me having remembered them wrong with Katniss. I should be figuring out a way to end Cato's suffering. Surely, he's paid for being such a bastard ten times over by now. But I can't move without nudging the angry throbbing of my leg toward pure agony. And although Katniss could move, she doesn't have the means to do anything for him.

Is it sick and self-centered if I say the Gamemakers are torturing all three of us at the same time? That's sure as hell what it feels like. The only choice we have is over what we listen to, so we talk.

The sound of our voices helps keep us both sane, and the topic is generic enough that I'm willing to risk associating it with death and pain and suffering. We could have sung songs to avoid reality, but if I'd asked Katniss to sing for me now, I doubt she ever would again. The memories of this night would get tangled up in the beauty of her voice. I'd rather die than ruin something so pure.

I wonder if I'll get to hear her sing again someday. I wonder if I'll live long enough. I wonder if she'll sing me to sleep here in the arena, y'know, if it turns out that I can't keep my promise to her.

Pulling myself away from those thoughts, I give Katniss' halting lecture on the Dark Days my undivided attention.

"Are you sure about that?" I ask even though I have no idea if what she's saying about District Eight's role in the rebellion is right. I just need her to keep talking.

We recite some dry, boring poetry that we'd learned over the years. We list the properties of the minerals we'd studied in school. We don't talk about the mines, mining, or mine safety. Everything else from our school subjects is fair game, though. Anything to keep us both talking and listening to each other and _only _each other.

It is the longest night of my life. It is the most painful. It is the coldest. Katniss and I nearly crush each other in our desperate embrace as we fight back, one stupid irrelevant recollection at a time. The shrieks and screams become more and more infrequent and so do Katniss' flinches, winces, and spasms.

Cato would have happily killed her if he'd been able to catch her. She is not obligated in any way to feel sorry for him, to pity him, but she does. As if I need more evidence that Katniss is nothing whatsoever like my mother, but here it is. My mother would have relished his pain, railed on about how he'd had it coming.

My mother is a muttation.

I feel sorry for my dad. She must not have been so bad when they were first married. I mean, my dad's a good person. Smart, too. He wouldn't have married a woman like her if he'd known what she was really like. Maybe he hadn't. Or maybe he hadn't wanted to see it.

I promise myself, right then and there, that I won't allow myself to see what isn't there. I will not lie to myself. Never again. Not for the remainder of my life, however long that ends up being.

Katniss' voice falters and I rush to pick up the slack. I keep her close. So close that when she breathes in, I breathe out. I'm sure that she can feel the throbbing of my leg through my pulse, as if we are one person, connected in blood and breath.

The growls and snarls continue forever, which lasts until dawn. The sun peeks over the horizon and suddenly everything is silent.

The cannon booms.

Cato is dead.

"We won," I rasp, my throat sore from the cold night air and dry from talking for hours nonstop.

"Hurray for us," Katniss answers, voice hoarse and flat. Flat like a trapdoor that keeps a terrible horror concealed beneath the drawing room floor. She leans up on one elbow and cranes her neck to see what's going on in the clearing now. I hear the sound of running footsteps.

"The mutts?" I check.

After a moment, she squeezes my hand. "Gone."

I close my eyes. We made it. "They'll be sending a hovercraft for us soon."

But they don't. The sun begins to climb the dome of the sky and everything remains utterly unchanged.

"Maybe we have to move away from the Cornucopia?" she speculates some minutes later.

"Maybe." I don't want to, though. Movement of any kind will not be an enjoyable experience for me right now.

We wait a bit longer, but eventually we have to face facts. We're not done yet. There is more to come and the Gamemakers won't relent until we've done whatever it is that they want.

I just hope they're not holding out for a lip lock. The last thing that had passed over my tongue had been vomit. No way am I kissing Katniss when I taste like puke.

"Come on," Katniss whispers, reaching over me and yanking the sleeping bag zipper all the way down. She stares at my leg for a long moment. I don't bother to look. I don't want to see it. The way her face pales, her brows pinch, and her lips tremble tells me that it's bad. "I'll slide if you'll push," she offers, climbing out of the bag and grabbing fistfuls of the insulating material.

"They're going to take away my hero badge for this," I grunt out as I sit up and place my palms against the slowly warming metal.

"You'll always be a hero to me."

Her factual tone draws my gaze to hers. She's serious. I don't understand.

She gives me a soft smile and I return it. I'll ask her later.

I scoot as she tugs and in a few minutes, I've made it to the edge. Katniss slides down first. Then she reaches up to grasp the edge of the sleeping bag that dangles down. I take a deep breath. This is going to hurt. A lot. I wonder what my odds are of retaining consciousness.

I'm guessing they're not very good.

Even with my palms pressed to the surface of the Cornucopia for traction, I slip down far too fast for my liking. Katniss catches me before my left foot can hit the ground. I concentrate on keeping my head from spinning off of my neck while her hand grips the underside of my thigh, keeping my leg elevated as she pushes me up against the side of the structure with the weight of her body against my chest.

"Thanks," I choke out as I work on balancing all my weight on my right leg. I open my eyes when I feel her fingers push my hair off my brow.

"I don't trust this."

"Me either." A glint of silver catches my eye. An arrow lying in the field. Probably the one she'd shot Cato in the hand with. Katniss turns and sees it.

"Stay here." She leans away slowly, gauging my ability to stay upright.

"I'm fine," I tell her and watch as she strides over and scoops it up.

Just then, the voice of Seneca Crane fills the arena.

"Attention, tributes, attention."

Katniss readies her bow so fast I barely see her hands move. She begins backing slowly toward me, expecting more monsters, more horror, more blood and pain and tears. I brace myself.

Seneca Crane tells us, "The previous revision allowing for two victors from the same district has been… revoked."

My heart sinks, shrivels, bleeds out into my hands. One word echoes in my mind: _revoked. _Of course it is. Of course.

"Only one victor may be crowned," he apologetically but gleefully informs. "Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Those sadistic bastards. They've been planning this all along. This, right here, is the finale. The star-crossed lovers torn apart despite all their courage and sacrifice. There won't be a dry eye in the entire Capitol after this, the most memorable Hunger Games ever.

I know I have a knife on me somewhere. I don't bother searching for it. Katniss has one arrow and even if she doesn't use it, I won't last much longer. My left foot is swimming in blood inside my boot. I can't really feel it, but I just know that it is.

When I look up, our gazes meet and—

Oh, God. She looks… devastated.

"It's okay," I say. I brace myself, offer my heart to her for a target. I can't summon a smile, but I speak sincerely. "Go ahead."

_Shoot straight._

She shakes her head. The motion is somehow made more erratic by her frazzled braid swinging back and forth.

"Katniss, it was always going to end this way." Her chin tilts stubbornly. I try again, "One of us should go home. I want it to be you."

"Not me." I can barely hear her, her voice is so ragged. "It should be _you._ It should be you going back, baking bread for the whole district, showing your kids how to do that someday. That's _your_ future, Peeta."

It takes every ounce of energy I have – and I'm fighting my heartache the whole time – but I stretch out an arm toward her and gesture her closer. "Come here."

The bow and arrow tumbles from her grasp and, in two and a half strides, she's in my arms. I bury my face in her neck. I lift my lips to her ear, speak as softly as I can, "I don't want that future with anyone but you, Katniss."

Her breath catches. Her spine stiffens. I hold on.

I speak loudly enough for the microphones, but softly enough to slip my words into her ear. "Go home to Prim. She needs you."

"No, you—"

"—have nothing to go back to, dearling. Let me take you home."

"Not without you. I can't." She stops, swallows thickly. Chokes. "I can't."

I don't hear any tears in her voice. None at all. I am so proud of her. My strong, amazing, _brave_ Katniss-blossom. And she was mine for a time. It was the high point of my life. It's enough. It's more than enough. It's more than I ever thought I'd have.

But I know she won't give in. I have to find a way to dissolve her promise to me. "You know they won't change their minds. Even if you do nothing, I'll be dead soon." I hate how I am always dying on her. "They have to have their victor."

She pulls back. My hands slide down to her waist; hers tremble on my shoulders. "No," she tells me, something dark, vicious, and dangerous flashing in her eyes. Something uncompromising. "No, they don't."

And then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the nightlock berries.

"No!" I gasp, reaching for her hand, horrified by this new strategy which is suddenly so terrifying clear. I cover her hand with mine, meaning to clamp my fingers over hers and seal those berries far away from her.

She brushes my hand gently away. "Trust me," she implores.

And because I do, because I trust her more than anyone or anything, I let her pour half of the poisonous fruit into my own palm. I study her expression, absorb her resolve. There is fire in her stare again. A wall of immovable flame. She will not be dissuaded: either we both win or we both lose.

What did I ever do to deserve her?

"Together?" I ask.

"Together," she confirms.

I raise my other hand to her cheek, smooth away a smudge of what must be either dirt or blood with my thumb. "On three?"

"Yes."

Okay, then. I lick my lips, take a deep breath. _I'm not ready for this._ "One…" I begin.

She looks away from my eyes and up to the sky. Maybe she thinks of her sister, her mother, Gale Hawthorne. Maybe she's changed her mind after all. She should. She should just let me go and—

"Two," she answers. Her voice is soft but strong. I reach for her messy braid and coax it so that it lies over her shoulder. My fingers twitch, catching its silky tail, and I touch her hair for what may very well be the last time.

She returns her gaze to mine. I love her so much. Forever. There must be a forever out there. A feeling like this will surely live on even after I die. It's too big for just me, for this body.

"Three," I finish. We lift the berries and simultaneously lower our mouths to our hands. My lip just touches the skin of one when—

"Stop!" Seneca cries, his voice booming, echoing. _"Stop!"_

I only freeze when Katniss does. We look up into each other's eyes. We wait.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the victors of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark."

Is that it? Did we do it? Do we get to keep our promises to each other? I hold my breath. I think I'm shaking, but I'm not sure. I feel so empty, light-headed, terrified.

But then Katniss brushes the berries from my hand and wraps her arms around me and I know – I _know_ – that we're okay.

Oh.

Oh, God.

We're okay. She's okay. It's all okay.

I hear the hum of a hovercraft above us. Katniss tilts her head back and gazes up. When I move to do the same, I feel the world tilt precariously. The sunlight becomes overwhelming. I feel myself slip sideways.

"Peeta?"

I reach for her to soothe away the fear in her voice, but the universe explodes into a blinding flash of white and pulls me away.

* * *

Notes: You might be surprised that the final rule change still happened, but things will diverge again from the book in the next chapter, just so you know.

FURTHER READING:  
"Either Way" by bellissimaanima (work-in-progress) - for a Katniss who takes the time to sort out her feelings and also for the awesomest re-invention of the Quarter Quell that I've ever read.


	25. The Hospital (Katniss POV)

Theme music: "Hide and Seek" by Imogene Heap

* * *

**The Hospital (Katniss POV)**

The Games are over, but the horror has only just begun. I know this with absolute certainty the instant Peeta loses what little color he has and slumps, slides, crumples in my arms. I grab him tighter before he can land on his injured leg and hurt himself even more.

"Peeta!"

His lashes flutter.

I call his name again.

He doesn't answer this time. At all. Not so much as a twitch of awareness on his slack face. His too-long lashes remain fanned out over his cheekbones.

"Peeta! Open your eyes!" I shake him. "Look at me!"

He doesn't. Can't. He can't do it. He can't do this to me. He cannot leave me here.

I scream his name yet again just as the hovercraft ladder descends. I struggle to hold onto him – _he cannot leave me here!_ – and the force field traps us.

They lift him into the craft and I can only watch as blood drips from the toe of his boot. How much has he lost? Am I too late? If I am, I know I will never leave this place, not really. I'll be locked in this moment, tormenting myself with all the ways I'd failed him, straining to think us both out of here. I'd promised him we'd both go home. I'd _promised._

The ascent takes an eternity and he keeps bleeding, blood keeps dripping. Dripping, dripping, dripping…!

_Help him! Somebody!_

Medical personnel swarm the instant the hatch closes beneath us. I'm still frozen in place and I can only watch as they lift him onto a stretcher, carry him off to what looks like a field operating room set right into the belly of the craft.

It's the sound of his name being shouted-whimpered-gasped that makes me realize I've been released from the force field. Someone tries to guide me away, tries to make me sit down, drink something. I shove them away and press my dirty, blood-smeared hands to the glass partition of the medical bay. It fogs with my breath as I mutter against its surface.

I have no idea what I'm saying. Maybe it's his name. Maybe it's his promise. He's supposed to stay with me, no matter what. _No matter what._

I think I've reached that point where your mind and body just can't take any more and you shut down.

"Katniss, dear."

I am not anyone's dear. Except maybe… Had Peeta called me—?

_"Dearling, let me take you home…"_

Someone sobs.

"Katniss, come along now."

I blink and manage to focus my eyes on the reflection beside mine in the glass. The face is pale with splashes of muted color: orange eyelashes and a sky blue wig. It could be Effie. I don't care. I lean my head against the divider and go back to watching the monitors.

"At least sit up properly."

It's definitely Effie. Peeta's heart monitor is beeping shrilly – whipping and scarring my heart again and again with every electronic shriek – and she wants me to correct my posture. What. And then one of the lines squiggles, dives, flattens. The doctors shout out numbers, instructions…

Peeta's heart has just stopped.

I think I lose it.

When I next open my eyes, I'm in a sterile room. A hospital? I've never been in one before, but some of the equipment looks familiar… from the hovercraft… when the doctors had been trying to save Peeta and then his heart had—

His heart—!

"Peeta!" My throat is so dry I barely make a sound. I fix that when I roll out of bed and land on the floor with a crash. My head spins and I realize that I'm still lopsided. Off-balance. I can't hear anything with my left ear. I shake my head, both to clear it and out of some kind of idiotic hope that I'll shift the broken pieces back together and fix whatever's broken in there. Of course nothing happens. No miracles, anyway. Damn it.

Curling up onto my knees, I get ready to stand up. I take a measured breath. My arm stings. It's bleeding. I think I must have torn out a tube or something. It doesn't matter. I try to push myself up and the room suddenly spins… or maybe it's me. I'm reeling. I grit my teeth against the wave of nausea. I've choked down the thickest, most belly-filling and intestine-cramping of Greasy Sae concoctions: pine needles, wild dog, and who knows what else. I can keep it together. I have to.

I have to find Peeta.

But first I have to stand up. Or crawl. Move. _Do something._

The door sweeps open and I don't have enough time or energy to realize that being discovered on the floor could be a bad thing before slippered feet are jogging over to me and thin, unfamiliar hands are wrapping around my arms, lifting me up.

"Take me to see Peeta," I demand, making no effort whatsoever to look at anything except the door. "Now. Take me to see him now."

The hands begin guiding me toward the bed I'd just decisively abandoned.

"No!" I turn to give my captor a piece of my mind and I pause. It's the Avox girl from our suite above the Training Center. She'd seemed familiar before, but I hadn't been able to place her, hadn't been able to look past her made-up face to the young woman beneath. Now, though, her expression is drawn with worry and strain and I finally remember where I've seen her before: in the woods outside Twelve.

Gale and I had been hunting. It'd been just another normal summer day until suddenly the sounds of running footsteps and bodies crashing through the underbrush had shattered the peace and quiet. Our first instinct had been to duck down below a rocky ledge, hold still, and wait until whatever had trespassed into our territory had moved on. We had.

And then we'd seen them: a boy and a girl, sprinting and struggling as if their lives had depended on it, bodies thin with hunger, scratched and covered in a layer of forest grime. Where had they come from? This was pretty much the end of the line, wasn't it? There was nothing but wilderness until you hit the devastated coast to the east.

I'd gaped stupidly at them, shifted cautiously although I couldn't have told you why. Was I seriously considering trying to help them? I didn't know. And then it didn't matter. Gale stiffened an instant before I heard it. The hovercraft swooped in so quickly I flinched back. If not for the outcrop we'd taken shelter beneath, they would have seen us.

A ladder descended, catching the girl. The boy was harpooned through the chest. He was probably dead before they could reel him up into the craft, but the girl… In the instant before the force field locked onto her, our eyes met.

_Help me._

I hadn't.

How could I have forgotten her face? How could I have not seen it beneath the Capitol makeup?

I startle when I feel the mattress against my thighs. I'm staring at her, caught up in the moment, snared in my failure.

I have no strength to resist her. Anyone else, I would have fought until my body had given out one me, but not her. She settles me back in bed, presses a bandage to my bleeding arm, and tucks me in. When she straightens, clearly intending to leave my side, I panic. I find my voice.

"I'm sorry," I gasp softly.

Her painted lips and brows twitch just the smallest increment in an expression that would have been a gentle, understanding, _forgiving_ smile if she were permitted to show those kinds of human emotions. Her eyes focus sharply on me. Her hand grasps my shoulder, squeezes once.

When she turns away, her expression is a study in indifference, neutrality, passivity. I know I have no right to ask anything from her, but I have to know. "Please," I beg raspingly. "Is Peeta alive?"

At the door to my room, she pauses on the threshold, dips her head once in a gesture that could have been interpreted as submission or deference, but which I feel must be an affirmative: _Yes, Peeta is alive._

She slips gracefully into the hall and my strength gives out. I slump back against the mattress.

The monstrous fist clutching my heart, twisting and squeezing it within my chest, falls away but not easily, not graciously: grudgingly and sneering, its claws dragging greedily and fangs showing. Its return will be swift if I start to doubt, if I'm given any reason to believe that I've been lied to. The Avox girl might have lied; she has no reason to do me any favors – I certainly hadn't done her any – but there'd been that look, that almost reassurance.

In the end, I believe her because if I don't I will have nothing left to hold onto. I can't do this without Peeta, and I have to do this. Therefore, Peeta must be alive.

The door opens again. I look up, but it's not anyone I recognize. I don't bother to speak as they slide a needle into my uninjured arm and attach the dangling tube to it. When I close my eyes next, I don't open them for a long time.

My body aches from inactivity when I take in the sterile room again. I shift and frown when I encounter resistance on my wrists and ankles. What?

"Miss Everdeen, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

I frown, tilting my chin back and blinking at the man seated at my bedside table. I don't know him… but I do. "President Snow," I wheeze. My mouth is dry and my tongue thick. It hurts to swallow.

"If you'll permit me?" he gently asks, offering what appears to be a cup of water with a straw poking through the lid.

Reluctantly, I nod. I'm too dazed to refuse, but I do not like his eyes. They are cold. His lips smile, but his eyes burn like a wasteland of ice. As he presents the water to me, holds it within easy reach of my mouth, he continues, "Please forgive the restraints. I'm sure they're unnecessary, but there is no arguing with doctors, you know."

I don't, but I sip the water slowly instead. The longer I do, the more he'll say and I'm wary of the moment when he asks for a response. I'm not good with words and I feel as if I'm suddenly on trial. Why is the president of Panem sitting here, waiting for me to wake, tending to me? He wants something. People always want something. That's the way the world works.

I have no desire to find out what had brought President Snow here. I just want him to leave. I want to see Peeta. I want to feel his hand in mine, his warmth soaking into my skin and calming me.

"Not too much, now," Snow warns.

Why? What could be dangerous about drinking half a cup of water? Unless it's not really water at all?

Fear closes my throat.

The cup is taken away.

"I'd like to see Peeta," I blurt before I can stop myself.

"So you will," he replies. "So you will. The recap interview is tomorrow night. You'll see him then."

No. That's not soon enough. I shake my head, frustrated both by this annoying roadblock and my inability to think of the words to change his mind. Peeta would know what to say. He's so good at saying things.

"Why am I tied down?" I manage to choke out. Do they think I'd actually attack President Snow? I doubt I have enough energy to sit up.

"Ah, yes. Well, when you fell out of bed yesterday, you very nearly gave yourself a concussion. The medication combined with the damage to your inner ear has made you unsteady. The restraints are for your safety."

Of course. Because nothing bad must happen to me while I'm in the Capitol.

"I must congratulate you. I cannot recall a more riveting Hunger Games," he muses, watching my face carefully.

I can't help the flare of anger in response. Who wouldn't be furious in response to a comment like that? Peeta had nearly died; I'd risked my life to keep him alive; terror and uncertainty had been our constant companions… and I'm told it was spectacularly entertaining.

Maybe the restraints are really here for _the president's _protection, not mine.

I clench my jaw and swallow down my rage. "For me, too," I mutter.

He chuckles softly and a strange scent drifts on the air. Roses and… blood?

I stiffen.

I am in danger. Peeta is in danger. Our families are in danger. I know this to be completely and utterly true. Hunter's instinct.

"The citizens were quite taken with the both of you," Snow remarks, his unblinking stare locked onto me. "Of course, with how charming Mr. Mellark is, he has acquired quite the following here in the Capitol."

I don't like the sound of that. I can feel each individual heartbeat pound against my ribs.

"While you, Miss Everdeen, seem to be quite popular in the districts."

I hold perfectly still. I know what Snow is now. I've seen his kind before in the wild. He is a snake. If I move, he will strike.

"In fact, you upset a lot of people when young Rue passed."

"That wasn't my intention," I whisper.

"Regardless of your intent, several districts reacted. I hope you understand; senseless violence is never the answer. It never gets anyone anywhere."

The threat fills my veins with ice. I can't think of a response, so I nod in mindless agreement.

"It would have been a matter of a moment to ensure a single winner, you understand."

Yes, I do.

"But the Capitol has no use for martyrs."

I fist my hands to hold back my tremors.

"We do, however, appreciate charm and talent. Mr. Mellark is very talented, is he not? He has a great many admirers here who would pay _anything_ for a private introduction. Or, say, an evening of his time."

Is he… Is he suggesting… telling me that he'd… he'd… Peeta would be forced to…?

My stuttering thoughts collapse… burn… _explode._ "You will not touch him!" I hiss. I can't remember ever being this furious, so furious my brain has no room of anything other than the flames of agony that I will use to _sear-char-annihilate_ him.

Rather than getting angry, the president sits back, looking very satisfied with himself. "Ah, I'd thought so."

I don't know what he'd thought and I don't care. "Leave Peeta alone."

"Happily. I'm sure you'll take very good care of him in Twelve, won't you?"

It's an order. I don't understand. Why threaten Peeta and then agree to send him home with me? What the hell is going on?

"Hm." He considers me for a moment. "Let us speak plainly, then, and honestly… to save time."

"Yes," I agree readily. I just want him to say it so I can contain the amorphous dread that is trying to swallow me whole. I need to know what I'm fighting, what the risks are, what the price of failure will be. I need to arm myself. I need to protect Peeta. I'd promised him. I keep my promises.

"There have been uprisings in Districts Eight and Eleven," Snow informs me bluntly. "Because of you, Miss Everdeen, and your performance during the Games. You did not play by the rules… and you've gotten away with it. So far."

I don't have to ask what I did wrong. I know what I did. I sang to Rue. I buried her with flowers. I saluted her and her district. I rebelled and I hadn't even known I was doing it until now. It boggles my mind that such a simple thing could incite an uprising in other districts.

"You have created this mess," Snow lectures, "and you will clean it up."

"How?" I need instructions. If he doesn't tell me exactly what he wants, I'll screw it up. And if I screw it up… I gulp, imagining the look on Peeta's face – confusion and irritation and befuddlement – upon receiving a summons ordering him to return to the Capitol. He won't know what that means, but I will. They will use him. They will destroy him. He is too good and pure to play their games, to adapt, to win. I would rather kill him myself than let him endure that.

"How?" Snow echoes mockingly and then instructs me, "With love, Miss Everdeen. You are a girl in love, are you not? Or was there some other reason why you reached for those nightlock berries?"

I blink at him, startled. The uprising isn't about Rue's death? It's about those stupid berries? "I couldn't go home without him," I admit. "I couldn't leave him there. He had to live."

"An admirable sentiment, but open to interpretation," the president cautions. "Be sure your words and actions are interpreted as you intend in the future."

I nod. I feel dizzy. I just want this nightmare to be over.

"Well, I think I've taken up enough of your time," Snow says, standing. "I look forward to tomorrow evening and your reunion with your lover."

_Lover?_ Peeta isn't my—

Oh.

I see.

Again, I can only nod.

I stare at my empty lap, my restrained hands aching in their tight fists, and I don't look up until the president's footsteps halt just this side of the door.

"Your sister, Primrose," he says suddenly and my chin jerks. He muses with a deceivingly gentle smile, "How many more Reapings does she have ahead of her? Six, isn't it?"

I'm too terrified to speak, too enraged to blink, too desperate to think.

"May the odds be in her favor," he bids me, tips his head in my direction as if to pay his respects, and departs.

The door shuts behind him. Silence descends in concert with a single tear, which crawls down my cheek and cools on my jaw. I'd been right about the horror of the Games. The arena had merely been the warm-up. The real horror starts now.

* * *

NOTES: So Katniss doesn't recognize the Avox girl right away (like she does in the book). Also, unlike the books, the damage to Katniss' ear is permanent. One thing I definitely borrowed from the books is the moment Katniss has when she realizes she can't let Peeta die because she will be stuck in that moment in the arena forever, trying to think their way out.


	26. The Recap

Theme music: "Illuminated" by Hurts

* * *

**The Recap**

I open my eyes and laugh. It's dry and wheezing, but real. Very real. I laugh because Haymitch is sitting next to my bed in what must be a hospital room, passed out, mouth hanging open, snores bouncing off the too-white walls. I think I even spot a crust of drool on his unshaven chin.

I laugh and he jumps, nearly falling off the chair. Tears stream down my cheeks as I just _roar_ with laughter… until I start coughing, and that's when I notice how unpleasantly sticky my mouth is. Haymitch passes me a cup of water and, after I've emptied it – only spilling a few drops on myself – I tell him on a chuckle, "You look like crap."

"Yeah, yeah, yuk it up, kid," he grumbles, pushing his lank hair out of his eyes. "Enjoy your morphling while it lasts."

I intend to.

He spitefully continues, "I'd like to see how _you_ do after two weeks of no sleep and constant ass-kissing."

That shuts me up. "Sorry. It must have been rough having not one but two tributes survive past the bloodbath."

"You have no idea."

I guess I don't. I have no idea how mentors do what they do, and Haymitch is the only one for the tributes from District Twelve. He does a thankless, doomed-to-failure-at-least-half-the-time job meant for two people. No wonder he drinks so much.

"Congratulations, by the way," he drawls, sarcasm edging its way in. "Who knew you could follow instructions."

"What instructions?"

"Stay alive."

When he doesn't say anything else, I smirk. "Well, I did. Thanks to you and Katniss."

He looks uncomfortable suddenly. At first, I think it's because he's not used to praise… or success, even. But then I wonder if—

My heart stumbles and grabs onto my ribs to keep from plummeting to my feet. I rush to ask, "She's all right, isn't she? Katniss?"

"Oh, yeah. Her prep team's already started working on her for the interview this evening. Your sweetheart is just fine."

I feel my face flush at that. "Katniss is no one's 'sweetheart'," I scold him.

"You're _'no one,'_ are you?" he challenges and my blush deepens, steaming my eyeballs in their sockets and burning away a bit of the giddiness that makes my head feel swimmy.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Clue in, kid. Things are different now. The Games…" He shakes his head a little sadly. "The Games change everything and everyone. Or are you still that little boy who would sooner puke on his own shoes than talk to her?"

No, I am not that boy anymore. Absolutely not.

"Good," Haymitch says as if I'd answered aloud. "Just so we're straight on that. Because you've got two choices, champ."

My brain feels like sneeze-scattered breadcrumbs, so I ask instead of ponder, "And what are they?"

"Go out there and get your girl, or lose everything you've fought for."

The hell! "That's not a choice."

"Glad to hear it." He leans back in his chair, looking rather too smug.

I stare up at the ceiling and sigh. Do I really have a shot with Katniss? After all of this, can what we became in the arena survive the trip back home? Maybe it can. Maybe it's possible but, like Haymitch said, I've got to work for it; I've got to go for it. The time for uncertainty and hesitance is long gone. If I want Katniss in my life, I can't let her push me away. I can't back down when I encounter resistance. We're partners. She'd promised. I'm going to hold her to that.

I turn my head toward my visitor and am a little surprised by the thoughtful – almost sad – look on his haggard face. He needs to go get some sleep, not sit around holding my hand. Besides, my prep team will be here soon, won't they? To get me ready for tonight's interview?

"What're you still doing here?" I ask him.

He blows out a deep breath that doesn't reek of alcohol… amazingly enough. "I'm waiting for you to get your shit together and ask me."

I frown. "Ask you what?"

He throws up his hands. "Never mind. I'll just let those asshole doctors deal with it if you're gonna be this dense."

"Deal with—?" I bite off the rest of my question as I realize that Haymitch has a point. Something's wrong. Something's not right… about me. Something's off. Unbalanced. I look down, my gaze taking in both arms and hands. Ten fingers. Torso, abdomen, thighs, knees, and—

"Oh. Shit."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the motion of Haymitch rubbing his hands over his face. "Took you long enough," he mutters.

I have no response to that. How had I not noticed that I… I'm… my leg is…

_Gone._

Oh, God.

Dropping his hands, he leans over and grips my shoulder. Hard. "Yeah. I'm really sorry, kid. Her tourniquet saved your life, but it took your leg."

I can't breathe. I can't _breathe._ Oh, God. I'm—

I bring my hands up to my face, mirroring Haymitch's earlier pose, and try to inhale and exhale. One breath at a time.

_"Breathe in… out…"_

Oh, God. I'm broken, Katniss.

_"Breathe in… out… let go."_

She's not going to want me after this. She's a hunter and I'm boy who's missing a leg. It just… It can't… work between us. It's impossible.

The hand still resting on my shoulder shakes me. "Snap out of it, kid. This ain't the end of your damn happily-ever-after."

It isn't? I take a deep breath, wipe my eyes, and lower my hands. "Is that so? Enlighten me, Haymitch."

"Well, it's like this. You got the girl. You won the Games, fame, and fortune. And they're gonna fit you with a brand new leg. Life's just peachy."

I laugh. There's a sob in there somewhere, but Haymitch is right. Feeling sorry for myself isn't going to accomplish anything.

"Did I really do all that?" I mean for it come out as a joke. I fail.

"And more," he grumbles.

I squint at him, wary of his tone, but he's already hitting a call button beside my bed.

"Now get ready for the fun to begin." I've never heard the word "fun" sound so completely vile before. "You gotta practice walking before they send you out there for all of Panem to see."

Oh, God. I can't deal with this. I'm being crushed by the weight of it. It's just too much.

"Just remember: one step at a time, champ," Haymitch says as the door opens and three people enter. One carries a case that's long enough and deep enough to hold the rest of my future leg. I look at them in horror. Haymitch stands and slaps me on the arm. I shift my frantic gaze up to him, seeking guidance like I never have before. He hesitates.

God, I must look pathetic.

"You can do this, Peeta. Just…" His lips quirk. "…make 'em small steps," he advises.

I blow out a breath. "That's not going to keep me from falling flat on my face," I argue weakly.

Haymitch chuckles. "Kid, after all the trouble she's gone through just to keep you alive, your sweetheart's not gonna let you do something like that. Mark my words."

I do. Hours later – after a grueling session with my Capitol-appointed physical therapist, a light meal, a nap, and a visit from Portia – I'm riding the lift up to the stage, squinting in the blindingly bright lights, clutching the silver cane in my grasp like I'll be sucked into outer space if I loosen my grip, and I _finally_ see Katniss. I see her, her dress glowing like soft candlelight, her hair flowing long and free, tears in her eyes, her lips stretched into a smile that makes my heart both ache and sing, and I know Haymitch is right. She won't let me fall.

Before I can even take more than one careful step in her direction, she's sprinting toward me. What can I do except open my arms?

The crowd is going crazy. I can feel Katniss' hot tears against my cheek. I tuck my chin down against her shoulder, nuzzle her hair aside, and breathe in her scent as it rises off of her soft, warm neck. I hold her close – we're both still too thin and weak – but there is no force in this world that could break my grip.

Caesar taps my shoulder and I register the fact that we're holding up the program. I don't really care, to be honest, but Katniss leans away. I drop my hands to her waist and then I feel her lips pressing softly against my cheek. I tilt my head into her touch and smile helplessly. Oh God, how I've missed her. Oh, how I love her. Need her.

She takes half a step back and I quickly capture her hand in mine. Tucking my cane up under my arm and carefully keeping myself balanced, I cradle her arm, lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her healed-and-whole knuckles. My gaze never leaves hers. Not once.

_I love you._

Her expression shifts, revealing either pain or hope.

For the first time, I sense that something is not right here. I squeeze her fingers and smile. "I've got you," I say.

The audience wails in rapture.

Katniss swallows and finally I see that unbreakable strength steel her eyes. She quietly answers, "Always."

Really? Is this real?

I don't care.

I scoop her toward me again and kiss the corner of her jaw just below her ear. I close my eyes and ignore Caesar, the audience, Panem, and just have a moment. They can watch, but they won't understand. Not really. And that's what makes this moment _mine. Hers. Ours._

Eventually, Caesar manages to herd us toward the small loveseat that's been set out beside his usual throne. I'm so happy to have Katniss' hand in mine that I almost forget about my artificial leg entirely. It's Katniss reaching for the cane tucked under my arm that reminds me to use it. She leads me to our seats at a measured pace. When the lights dazzle me, causing me to nearly trip, she's there, shifting her weight to support me without revealing my predicament. I doubt anyone had noticed my faltering step except for her.

As if I need another reason to love her. Still, it's nice to have one more to add to my list.

"Peeta, Katniss," Caesar begins, "it's such a treat to have you both back."

"The pleasure is ours," I reply, lifting my arm when Katniss kicks off her shoes and snuggles against my side. I wrap it around her shoulders and turn to press my lips to her temple, covering my shock. Why is Katniss curling up practically in my lap in front of the whole damn country? This isn't like her. Something is wrong.

I'd be heartbroken if I weren't so apprehensive.

I reach for her hand and rest our interlocked fingers on my thigh. Her grip is tight. Her hands are cold. She's afraid.

I miss Caesar's next question completely.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I say.

Caesar chuckles and shares a joke with the audience, "It looks like someone's in love."

I expect Katniss to tense up. She doesn't. She relaxes.

Okay, I've moved past unease and suspicion into genuine fear because there's no way Katniss would be pleased with this kind of revealing attention. I cover my anxieties with a smile.

"That's what it feels like, too," I tell him, rubbing my hand over Katniss' bare arm. _I'll get us through this. Just trust me. Trust me._

Caesar introduces the recap footage and Katniss and I find ourselves being subjected to a love story. This year, the Gamemakers have decided to tell a Goddamn romance. Those bastards. How dare they. How dare they twist the Games into something _heartwarming _and _inspiring._ How dare they use the deaths of twenty-two kids as plot devices on the way to _our_ happy ending.

I really, really want to punch someone.

Katniss' hand tightens in mine and I hold on. I rein in my temper. I have to smile now. Katniss needs my help. I have to get us through this.

And yet, it's me who needs her defense first. They show my interaction with the Careers at the river. I look so confident, so cool, so Goddamn smarmy. I really am a liar, a really, _really_ good one. I feel sick.

Caesar asks for Katniss' reaction to this. "Do you hold it against him, Katniss?"

She doesn't bristle, but she is immovable in her response. Her tone doesn't give a single, solitary inch. "What exactly would I hold against him?"

Caesar includes the audience in the discussion with a sweeping, embarrassed smile. "Well, some of the things he said—"

"What did he say that was so bad? Really?" she counters with startling candidness, turning everyone's own dirty thoughts against them, shaming them.

I've never seen Caesar look this uncomfortable. It's almost entertaining. "Ah, well, he implied…"

"I know what he implied, and it kept him alive." Her tone makes it clear that she refuses to say anything else on the matter, but she gives me a warm smile. "I'm proud of you." Her voice is soft, but of course the microphones pick it up and everyone overhears. She looks into my eyes, reaches up with her free hand to touch my face, and I know I'm forgiven for those revolting words. I was forgiven the moment I'd said them.

"Thank you," I whisper, genuinely touched, reassured, calmed. I know I'll need that calm if I hope to make it through the next two-plus hours.

We reluctantly turn our attention back to the screen, reliving that first night that I'd helped the Careers track her, and I'd been right: Katniss had been watching me. She'd been anchored to a branch just a few yards above my head as Cato and Glimmer had mocked that girl's death. When I'd felt Katniss' eyes on me, it hadn't been my imagination. She'd seen and heard the whole thing. I stare at the screen as the Katniss-in-the-Games leans her head back against the tree in which she's perched and whispers, "Hold on, Peeta."

Of course, Caesar has to stop the recap there and ask Katniss what she'd meant by that.

"I think my actions are self-explanatory," she replies, softening the words with a shy smile.

"Indeed they are," Caesar agrees and launches into a video-aided explanation of how Katniss had searched the arena for advantageous features, things she could use against the Careers, and then set her snares so as to help me lead them into her trap.

Of course, before that last thing happens, she is nearly burned to death. I know I'm not seeing the whole sequence of events, but just watching the short clips of Katniss racing through a blazing forest, dodging fire balls, screaming when one explodes too close to her leg—

Katniss clutches my hand in both of hers. "I'm fine," she reminds me.

I kiss her forehead, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back the rage and terror of what might-have-been. "I know."

We sit through the next sequence of events: the hunt. The Careers discover her at the river. Thank God I'd been bringing up the rear because when the camera zooms in on my face, there's no way I could have passed that look off as anything other than what it had been: piss-your-pants panic. It's not until we get to the part with our staged bickering as Katniss clings to a lofty bough and I glower up at her from the forest floor that Caesar asks about our cooperative efforts.

"We made an alliance," I confess. "The night before the Games began. To stick together."

"And did you discuss this scenario?"

"Not in detail," Katniss admits.

"Peeta, were you surprised that she picked up on your ploy so quickly?"

Actually, I'd been too busy dying of shame over the pretense in the first place. I nod reluctantly. "A lot of people underestimate Katniss. Right then, I was one of them."

"You didn't make that mistake a second time," she observes teasingly.

"I'm a fast learner." I wink.

Katniss looks on as I wince right along with every tracker jacker sting she receives. On the screen, I rush to catch her and fetch the weapons that will save her life. I carry her through the woods, replying to her nonsensical comments with increasing worry. Camping with Rue and sleeping beside Katniss that first night… it's all here, condensed into ten minutes of footage.

Then we switch back to Katniss and Rue and I almost swallow my tongue when Katniss tells her, "Peeta saved my life… a long time ago."

Had I? She can't mean… the bread. Can she? No, of course not. I hadn't done anything special. In fact, I'd totally screwed it up.

Caesar asks for an explanation. Katniss looks into my eyes and I know that, as impossible as it seems, she really does believe that I'd saved her life.

She turns to address the audience and the cameras. "Before we shook hands on the stage, er, at the Reaping, um, Peeta and I had only really had one interaction. We hadn't even spoken before we got on the train."

"But he'd saved your life?"

"Yes."

"Come now, Katniss. Give us details!"

Katniss clutches my hand tighter and I leap into the conversation. She needs me to redirect, manipulate, implicate. Lie. They can't know about that moment in the rain when she'd been so close to breaking. I won't let the Capitol have that. They have no right to it.

"It was a cold spring," I begin, and I tell them a story about a boy out on a bread delivery in a freezing rainstorm who literally stumbles upon a girl with a twisted ankle, unable to walk. I'd helped her home, turned to go, but then thought better of it. I'd pressed some bread into her hands and then made my way back to the bakery. The wind had been howling too loudly for us to speak. I hadn't even been sure that she'd known who had helped her since we'd both been so bundled up and drenched and miserable.

It's a lie, but is saves her pride. It protects Prim and her mother. It explains my comment during my initial interview with Caesar about not knowing if the girl I liked had even recognized me before the Reaping. It makes sense of Katniss' remarks in the cave – about me having fed her once – and I hope my rambling confession about _tossing_ the bread to her in the rain is chalked up to delirium.

The citizens seem satisfied with that and Katniss gives me a look of such profound gratitude that I kiss her forehead yet again. "I've got you," I breathe against her skin.

She reaffirms her grip on my hand in reply.

Then it's back to the Games: my capture and the hours I'd spent tied to that Goddamn tree at the Careers' camp. On the screen, Katniss is glorious as she comes to my rescue. Our reunion is drawn out – every word, every touch is displayed for the whole country to savor. The audience is in rapture. I hate them. That moment had been ours until they'd broadcasted it, turned it into pixels and sound bytes.

My arm curls tighter around Katniss' shoulder. _That was real,_ I want to say. _I wasn't thinking about the cameras then. Just you. Just you and how incredible you are._

I'll have to tell her later. In private.

Where Katniss is stunning as she comes to my aid, I am noticeably less so when I run into Cato. My comment about true love makes her flinch and I want to apologize, but for what exactly I'm not sure. There is so much to be sorry for. I'm so sorry she has to watch what happens next, but she doesn't look away from the screen when I get stabbed. She brings my hand up to her cheek and leans into it, her fingertips on the pulse point in my wrist. Yes, I'm still alive, still with her. I made it.

"What were you thinking during that whole encounter, Peeta?" Caesar asks, perhaps sensing that Katniss can't talk right now. Seeing it all unfold makes the events seem less real to me but easily twice as terrifying. I rub her arm and let her have a moment.

"I was thinking I needed to give her more time to blow up the supplies. Keeping Cato busy was the best thing I could do for her."

We watch the destruction of the Careers' camp and I realize that the shot that had freed me had not been a lucky one. Katniss really is that good. She slices open the netting holding the apples, spilling them down the pyramid and setting off the mines on her second try. Shit. Her target had been barely wider than a sheet of paper at fifty yards.

"Incredible," I tell her. My admiration knows no bounds. Truly.

Then we must suffer through Rue's death, and I finally get to hear Katniss sing again. Her voice is incomparably beautiful. The years had warped my memory, deadened it, turned it into something two-dimensional, a mere ghost of its true glory. I don't know the song she sings to Rue, but even through a recording, it is exquisite. Katniss stiffens little by little as the scene plays out and, when it fades to black just as she delicately shuts Rue's eyes, she releases a long breath. Yes, it's over.

"Peeta, did Katniss tell you what became of your little ally?" Caesar asks me.

My voice is thick – too thick to speak clearly – and I have to clear my throat once, twice.

Katniss answers for me, "He knew. When he saw that I was carrying her pack, he knew, but…" At this point, she turns to me and confides, "You were so sick. I didn't want to talk about death anymore. Maybe I thought it would come for you sooner if I bought it up."

The audience weeps.

Caesar segues into Katniss' search for me along the river, her discovery of me, and her stubborn insistence on getting me settled in that cave. They air so many moments – so many intimate conversations – that I start to see red. I can't believe them. I simply cannot believe them. Have they no sense of decency?

I guess not.

Both Katniss and I clutch each other's hand in my lap as we dredge up smile after smile. We mutter sickening romantic drivel and manage bashful murmurings. We're just two kids in love, caught on camera. How embarrassing.

But it isn't embarrassing. It's infuriating. Those moments should be ours and ours alone. I know I shouldn't be so angry. I'd known they were filming us in the arena. I just hadn't thought they'd take _everything._

I try not to let it get to me, but I'm the youngest brother of three. I've never had much that was only ever mine, and _this _is mine, like the smiles I'd coaxed out of her in the Training Center were mine and the night we'd spent at the window was mine. I know the whole stupid world is watching, and I know there's nothing I can do to stop them. I know I should be generous, shouldn't care, shouldn't be bitter, but I kind of am. For the first time in my life, I've been given something rarer than rare, something that's one of a kind.

The Capitol had no right to this. They have no right. None.

When Caesar asks Katniss about the story she'd told me the afternoon before the Feast, she's too tired to tell him anything but the truth. "He was dying. Hope that life would continue – that death wasn't the end – was all I could give him, Caesar."

Oh, God. Tears fill my eyes. I'm too worn out to fight them. Katniss untangles one of her hands from our grasp and wipes them away for me.

I'm not given any time to recover. Although I'm not sure that any amount of time could have prepared me for the events about to unfold: I see Katniss sneak up to the cave entrance and curl into a miserable ball. I know her well enough to know she is a moment away from breaking. Oh, God. There is a limit to her formidable strength. I'd seen it under an apple tree in the rain and here it is again. I hold her tighter, whisper an apology into her hair.

She draws a shuddering breath. I hate how upsetting this is. _Don't let them see you cry, dearling. Don't give them that._

I can feel Katniss pull herself together.

And then Seneca Crane dangles her-my-our salvation before us and off she goes, making alliances, managing yet another impossible shot, and facing off with Clove. Despite all the odds, she makes it back to me. Looking at myself on the screen, seeing how weak and pale and ill I'd been, seeing how I'd barely managed to perform basic first aid on Katniss before passing out again, I can't deny that she had saved my life.

I look away from the recap and lift my hand from her shoulder to trace the place on her forehead where her scar should be, but it's gone. Gone as if it had never been. But that's fine. I'm sure I'll be seeing it again soon in my nightmares.

The rest of the recap passes in a blur until the very end, when we've both been taken aboard the hovercraft and my heart stops as Katniss screams my name. Oh, God. I am never going to forget the sound of her denial. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I make a concentrated effort to pull myself together for the conclusion of our interview. Caesar will ask for even more personal information. I have to figure out a way to satisfy him without giving away – without giving _up_ – too much. We've already let them take too much from us.

When the screens go dark, Caesar declares, "And that, ladies and gentlemen of Panem, is the story of two star-crossed lovers."

The crowd roars with ecstasy.

"But I have to ask, Katniss, what were you thinking when you pulled out the nightlock berries at the end?"

"I was thinking…" Her voice fades for a moment before she rasps, "I'd rather die than live without him."

I can't believe her. I want to – oh, how I want to – but I can't. We're playing this up for the cameras, after all. But when she catches my eye with her flickering gaze, I see something that could be truth. Oh, God. Really?

"And you, Peeta?"

I refuse to tear my attention away from her. "I wasn't letting you die, Katniss. No way."

Caesar leans forward and prods, "There's just one more thing we all want to know, Peeta… what _was _in your jacket pocket? Your token in the arena, what was it?"

Oh, no. No. They cannot have that. I have to stall for time. I have to think of some plausible explanation for that sheet of paper. "Uh, what?" _Smooth, idiot. Real smooth._

"Now, now, don't be embarrassed, Peeta!" Caesar entreats. "You can tell us or, perhaps, you can show us. What do you think folks? Shall we have Peeta's jacket brought out?"

Oh, shit.

As the crowd in the hall shrieks its approval and Caesar gestures for a stage hand to produce my jacket, I accept the inconvenient fact that I can't talk my way out of this.

I remove my arm from Katniss' shoulders to accept the garment. She sits up beside me and I have to let go of her hand to unzip the pocket. My face feels like it's about to combust and my hands are trembling. I think I'm fooling everyone – except for Katniss and Haymitch – into thinking that I'm mortified instead of enraged. How dare they ask this of me! My sketch… _That look_ was Katniss' gift to me. To _me._

But as my fingers brush the folded sheet of paper, I suddenly know that something is off. This sheet of paper isn't wrinkled enough, hasn't been softened from riding in my pocket for days on end, has never been warped by my body heat.

This is not the sketch I'd taken into the arena.

Could it be one of my other ones? Possibly. I'd sketched a lot in the days leading up to the Games. But who could have replaced it? Suddenly, I know the answer to that: Portia. And I think I know which of my sketches this is. I turn it over and… yes. There's the lightest of scribbles down in the corner, identifying the subjects.

I sit back and, after the smallest hesitation, I hand it to Katniss. "This is for you, actually."

She frowns slightly. I lean forward again and urge her to open it up with a small nod, clasping my hands together between my knees to control my nerves. She's never seen any of my drawings before. I hope she likes this one.

I watch her unfold it. Her gaze drops to the paper in her hands. She gasps. Her hand covers her mouth as her gaze flies back up to mine.

I smile hopefully. "Is it okay?" I ask, trying not to appear as nervous as I feel.

She propels herself into my arms, knocking me back against the arm of the loveseat. I haul her closer so she can speak softly into my ear. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"But what _is it?"_ Caesar demands. The audience sounds positively feral.

"It's just a sketch," I explain, "of Katniss and her little sister, Primrose."

Caesar calls for a close up and Katniss obligingly holds the drawing steady for all to see. It's not my best work, but I'm glad she likes it. And I'm especially glad that Portia had hidden away the real one.

My relief is short-lived, however, because Caesar is now angling to end the recap and set things up for our return to Twelve and life thereafter.

"So, Peeta, how are you doing with that leg?"

I don't think much of the question initially, so I answer easily, glad that there's an end in sight to this torture. Once I'm away from the cameras, I can get angry. But for now, I have to take their shit and smile like it doesn't stink.

Tapping my cane against my prosthetic foot, I almost brag, "Brand new!"

"What?"

Katniss' quiet, breathless question makes me pause. Caesar's sympathetic look fills me in. She didn't know. She didn't know about my leg and she has to find out _now on live television._

Those Goddamn bastards. I will hate them forever for doing this to her, to _us._

She reaches over my knee and tweaks my left pant leg up a few inches. Not much, but enough for her to see that there is no flesh beneath.

I gently capture her face, cradling her cheek in my palm and urging her to look away, urging her to look at me, to see _me._ "I'm so sorry," I tell her. I ignore the cameras. This is too important. "I lost it."

"Because of the tourniquet." She is a heartbeat away from breaking down. I can see her incredible strength crumbling. It's there in her soft eyes, folding in and falling like snow off of sun-warmed roofing tiles.

"The tourniquet _that saved my life,_ Katniss," I specify. I can see that she wants to argue with me over this, but we cannot discuss it here, now. "It's okay. I'm okay. I'm fine. Everything is fine." _Please don't lose it._

I brush her cheek with my thumb, ready to catch any tears that fall but hoping the touch is enough to remind her not to cry. Not here. They don't deserve her tears.

Her nod is reluctant and I know she'll have more to say on this later, but for now she's pulled herself together, yanked all of her emotions deep inside herself. She gives Caesar and Panem a brave smile and fits herself against my side again.

"Does this change anything for you, Katniss?" Caesar has the nerve to ask.

"Of course not," she tells him, her voice vibrating with the force of her fury. I don't know how she contains it. "I don't love him any less because of this." She tilts her chin back and tells me gently, "You're still you, and you're still here… with me."

I lower my forehead, touching mine to hers, and smile. I damn the cameras and the audience to hell. I tell Katniss the truth: "Always."

* * *

One more chapter to go: the infamous train ride back to District Twelve. If you've enjoyed C&S, please let me know. I've been dabbling with the sequel, but your responses will encourage me to work on it and share it... or not. So, I hope I hear from you!

**Fanfic Rec:** "Sins of the Father" by streetlightlove - because it isn't about finding a deeper emotional connection through sex; it's about finding a deeper emotional connection and being brave enough to see where it takes you.


	27. The Victors

Theme music: "Sirens" by Antje Duvekot

* * *

**The Victors**

"What is that?"

I don't startle at Katniss' soft question. I hadn't heard her enter the dining car, but that's fine. I'm used to her silent footsteps by now. I'm more surprised that she doesn't peer over my shoulder. But, after what we've been through, I guess both of us are more aware of others' privacy. Although I have no desire whatsoever to share this with the Capitol, I know I'll share it with her. I have no secrets from Katniss.

Still, that doesn't mean my stomach isn't churning. I'm easily a hundred times more nervous about showing her this one than I had been with the sketch of her and her sister. That had been a simple portrait from memory. This… this is not simple. And it'd very nearly been drawn from life.

I hand it to her and look out the window, steadying myself against the narrow ledge and watching the landscape blur past. "It's my token. The one I _actually _carried into the arena." I brace myself for her reaction. But…

She's quiet. Too quiet. Eventually, I have to look at her.

Katniss stares down at the sketch I'd done of her, capturing that warmth in her eyes that had been just for me, that soft smile that I treasure. "Peeta…"

The sketch is balanced carefully on her fingertips. A soft breeze could blow it away. Too many words crowd my tongue. Words of thanks and explanation and reassurance. I don't say any of them.

Instead, I think of the Capitol and their greed, their cameras and microphones, their eyes wide and ears perked. I think of an eternal spotlight. I think of the coronation. I study her now as I had then, watching President Snow approach us with a single coronet. For a moment, I'd thought Katniss would be the only one of us to be crowned in a literal sense, but then he'd twisted the metal in his hands, separating it into two circlets.

I remember thinking it oddly symbolic: Katniss and I are something of a package deal, indivisible. She'd seemed to find meaning in it, too. She'd watched the president, wary and defiant, as he'd congratulated her. The breathless tension of the moment… my disquiet from our interview… Katniss' uncharacteristic displays of affection… it had all layered one on top of the other until—

"What a lovely pin," the president had remarked.

Beautiful and emotionless, Katniss had answered, "Thank you. It's from my district."

President Snow had paused and given her a pointed look. "They must be very proud of you."

And because I had been paying close attention to her, searching for clues, I had seen it the moment it had blossomed: fear. Katniss' breath had caught. The muscles in her neck had corded. Her jaw had clenched. It had all added up to one horrible conclusion: Katniss is afraid of President Snow. She has made an enemy of the most powerful man in the known world.

I may have discovered the source of her terror, but only that. Nothing more. I hesitate to ask her about it here, on a train outbound from the Capitol. The Games have given me a paranoia that may never be completely erased. I feel their eyes on me even now.

Which is also why I cannot say what I want to, why I can't thank her or reassure her or explain how I feel about her…

She offers the sketch back to me. "I'm not… She's too pretty to be me."

"She's you," I insist, borrowing her matter-of-fact tone. "She's you when you look at me." I carefully tuck the sketch into my jacket pocket. She looks up and waits until I look over. "Well," I add a little bashfully, "when I earn it."

She searches my eyes and I invite her closer with a smile.

She accepts, moving to stand next to me, but glances away to stare out the window. I've unsettled her, but she hasn't locked me out or walled herself away. This is progress. This is _great _progress. I dare to be a bit more… daring.

"So," I begin, "what happens when we get back?"

"I don't know," she admits with a vague frown. "I guess we try to forget."

I'd been afraid she'd say something like that. Dreading it. Hoping for a different answer. I focus on the scenery. "I don't want to forget," I tell her a little angrily. "I won't."

I can feel her studying me, but I don't trust myself to face her just yet.

"I won't go back to being that boy who didn't speak to you all those years, who wasn't your friend. I won't be useless or pathetic again. Or a coward. I won't do it, Katniss." I look at her. I glare. I _burn._ "If that means I have to remember all the bad things, too, then I will, because I can't go back."

Her lips move, shape my name, but no sound emerges.

Just then, the car door slides open and Haymitch saunters in. At almost the exact same moment, the train begins to slow.

"Refueling station coming up," he tells us. "Let's go get some fresh air. You and your honeybuns can hold hands and watch the sunset, sweetheart."

I expect Katniss to resist on principle. The fact that she doesn't is telling. Very telling.

Just what the hell is going on here?

I manage to keep a lid on it until we're strolling along the functional, cement platform. I let Haymitch speak first simply because I don't want to start yelling so early on in the conversation.

"Okay, sweetheart. You know what you have to do." His lecturing tone doesn't surprise me, nor does the sharp, calculating look in his eyes. They're both still depressing as hell because I think I know what's coming, I just don't understand why.

He continues, "Just keep it up until the camera crews head back to the Capitol – shouldn't take more than a week, two at most – and then you'll be home free."

"No, we won't," Katniss replies, glancing at me and shifting half a step in my direction. I recognize the gesture. She's reaching out for me, her partner. I move to her side. I may not know what the hell is going on, but I trust her to tell me the truth. "Haymitch… President Snow came to see me in the hospital."

I jerk with shock. Both Haymitch and I gawk at her.

"Did he now?" our mentor says, an odd tenor affecting his voice.

Katniss nods. "There's been some kind of rebellion in at least two of the districts and he blames me. The berries… He said I'd broken the rules and gotten away with it." She hesitates and then forces herself to add, "So far."

"Oh, shit, sweetheart."

"What?" she grits out. "Isn't that why you warned me before the interview that they'd be watching. That they were angry. That I had to be… I had say… I had to make them think that I… we…"

At this point, she looks at me, an apology in her eyes. Yeah, I'd kind of figured that it'd be like this.

It wasn't real. _Isn't_ real.

I pretend I don't have a heart. It will make this conversation easier to bear. "I knew something was wrong in the interview, Katniss," I admit even though it kills me to do it. "You would never… act like that in front of the cameras unless you thought you had to."

"I'm sorry," she mouths.

"You bet you are," Haymitch snarls. "Goddamn it, sweetheart."

"Don't you 'Goddamn it, sweetheart' me! Just tell me what needs to happen next! How do I keep Snow from tossing Prim into the arena next year?"

It's not until Katniss is facing me that I realize I've grabbed her arm and turned her. "Did he threaten your sister?"

She must trust me because I've never seen her so distraught, so desperate. "He made a point of letting me know he was aware that she had six more Reapings to face, Peeta. Does that sound like a threat to you?"

"What else?" Haymitch demands.

Katniss stiffens. "What?"

"What else did he threaten you with?"

"Why aren't you surprised that he threatened Prim in the first place?"

"Because this is what they do!" Haymitch snarls. "The moment your name is picked your life is over, sweetheart. It's never going to be your own, not unless you turn to morphling or moonshine or are lucky enough to not have anyone you care about still alive... which you aren't." He studies us, his gaze moving from Katniss to me and back again. "They will keep using you until there's nothing left, so tell me – what else did he say to scare you into shitting your britches?"

"Nothing."

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

She leans in, toe to toe with our mentor, not giving an inch. "He told me Peeta and I have to stick together. We have to be in—in love. We have to give the districts the right impression. _That_ impression. Otherwise, Prim gets Reaped. That's all, Haymitch!"

"Fine. Great." Haymitch glances at me, something flickering in his bloodshot eyes. When he looks back at Katniss, he scowls. "Shit." He furrows his fingers through his hair. "Goddamn it. You just had to pay your respects to Rue, surround her with flowers, salute her… You just had to make her _matter._ Eleven just _loved_ that. Sent you that little bit of bread, didn't they?"

I recall Rue's death from the recap. Katniss had seemed relieved when it had faded to black. At the time, I'd assumed it was because she'd wanted it to be over. Now that I have the context for it… Katniss had been terrified of being asked to explain her actions, knowing that President Snow would be watching and waiting for an excuse – any excuse – to punish her for inciting a rebellion.

"Eleven," Katniss says uncomfortably, "that's one of the districts that, um…"

"Rioted," Haymitch supplies. "There were riots right after that little girl died. District Eight rioted after that stunt with the berries." Haymitch shakes his head. "Congratulations, sweetheart. You've locked yourself into one hell of a role." He levels a finger at her. "And don't for one minute think this ends in six years. The Capitol doesn't work like that. You'll always have a weak point, and they're always gonna have their finger on it."

I catch my breath and glance sideways at Katniss. I'm so caught up in my own dawning horror that I don't even think it worth remarking on that she'd met my gaze as quickly as I'd sought hers.

"So think carefully about who you're gonna be giving warm greetings to when we get back," Haymitch warns us. "Because the more people you let close to you, the more cannon fodder you give the Capitol."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. My dad. My brothers. They're targets now and there's nothing I can do about it. But others – the kids I know from school and family friends – I can avoid them, save them. I'm starting to understand why Haymitch is always on his own.

"Are you ready for this, Girl on Fire?" he asks Katniss. "Because, really, it's all on you. If the Capitol isn't convinced, Snow's gonna go with Plan B."

Katniss doesn't deny any of this. I wish she would. It's starting to sound like she doesn't have any choice but to keep up the act. I don't want it to be an act. An act is worse than having to share something real with the cameras. Oh, God. How did we end up losing even though we'd won? What a Goddamn mess.

I summarize, "So we keep up the star-crossed lovers deal, convince everyone that we're a couple of stupid, desperate, love-sick kids, and this'll make the riots stop? Does Snow really believe that?" How stupid and complacent does he think the people in the districts are?

"Snow will use whatever – and whoever – is at his disposal to squeeze the nation's balls until we beg for mercy, kid. The last thing he needs is you two going all militant and inspirational. You've gotta seem harmless. You get it now?"

"Got it."

"Good." He turns to Katniss and asks sweetly, "Now, was there anything else you'd like to share with the class?"

"Go suck on a bottle," she snarls.

"Thanks. I think I will. Don't stay out too late now. You'll need your beauty sleep for your _victorious_ homecoming tomorrow."

He hauls his sarcastic ass back on the train. I stare after him, too angry and scared to say anything.

Katniss turns to me, but she can't quite look me in the eye. "I am so, so sorry, Peeta."

I snort. "Sorry that you saved both our lives?" Yeah, that makes a whole lot of sense to _me._

"No. I'm sorry I couldn't figure out a way to do it better."

I sigh and abandon my anger. What's done is done and being upset isn't going to help us face what comes next.

"Come here," I beckon, opening my arms. She steps into them after a brief hesitation. She's stiff, resistant. I rub her back soothingly until her arms wind loosely around my waist. "It's going to be all right."

She laughs. It sounds painful. "No, it won't."

"Yes," I insist, "it will. If Snow wants a pair of love-sick teenagers, then that's what he'll get."

"Peeta, I don't— I'm not— _I can't—"_

I know she's not normally comfortable dealing with words or people. I'm frankly amazed that she'd gotten through the recap so successfully. It looks like I'd underestimated her again. But now she's the one who is underestimating herself.

I shush her gently. "Hey, hey. How many times have you saved my life? A lot, right? That means you care. I can work with that."

"Caring is a long way from being in love."

"Maybe, but nobody else has to know it, Katniss. Just give me a little of your trust. We can do this."

Her forehead drops to my shoulder. "How?"

She sounds so hopeless and defeated. I can't let her give up. Not now. Not ever. She needs a plan, a strategy. I can do that for her. She'll take my words. I'm good with those.

I coach her quietly, "Just be my friend." Her frustrated sigh heats my neck, so I elaborate on my vague answer, "When I make you smile or laugh, don't fight it. Don't push me away. Just allow me a little closer than most others, like… like you do with Prim or Gale. Can you…" My voice cracks. This is it. The moment of truth. "Can you care about me like that? Even a little bit?"

My hands pause on her back as I wait for her verdict. The soft chugging of the idling train competes with my roaring pulse. If Katniss can't let herself trust me, if she can't admit that much, I just… I just don't know what I'll be able to do for her if the answer she gives me is anything other than—

"Yes."

I let out the breath I'd been holding. Oh, thank God. "Okay," I say through a sudden smile. "Great. That's fine."

"We're partners," she reminds me, tripping my heart and making it stumble.

Three weeks ago, there had been an impassable chasm between us. I'd spent years wishing for the strength to bridge it, trying to find a way to fashion a rope from my hopes and dreams, tie my heart onto the end of it, and throw it across the void to her on the other side. But I never had. I'd been too afraid she wouldn't catch it. Even now, she's made me no promises and there are no guarantees, but my heart is hers whether she accepts it or not. And that's fine. It's fine. I still have more than I'd ever expected I would. Here we are: holding onto each other as the sun sets on the silent horizon. She's resting her head on my shoulder, trusting me with the weight of her worries, telling me that we are partners, she and I. We are partners.

"Yeah, we are." Is love always supposed to hurt this much? Even when you're happy? Maybe. I'm not really an expert. I'm probably not even very good at loving her or showing her how important she is to me. All I'm really sure of is that I can lie.

That prompts me to give her a reminder in exchange, "I will always be honest with you. Always." I seek out her hand, which I lift to my lips and kiss soundly, sealing that promise with a gesture that is familiar and genuine, something we'd had before the Games had begun.

She takes a step back and meets my gaze. There's something in her eyes – a determined spark – that warns me. She has something important to say and I'm not entirely sure it'll be pleasant to hear. Her fingers curl tighter around mine. "You shouldn't have said those things about yourself. On the train just now."

What? Oh. That. Well, maybe I shouldn't have said it. It had probably come out sounding like I was holding a little pity party for myself. That hadn't been my intention. I'd only been stating facts.

I shake my head. "That doesn't make it untrue. Until the Reaping, I was a complete—"

Her hand lifts from my shoulder and hovers over my mouth. "Stop. You were _never_ a coward. You were never any of those things."

She's so sweet without being the least bit soft. She really believes what she's saying. I brush her fingertips with my lips in thanks, but I have to argue the point. "The facts say otherwise."

Pulling her hand away and glaring, she grits out, "No, they don't."

I know that stubborn look on her face. I won't get a word in edgewise until she's said her piece. Okay, fine. I'll let her say what she needs to. It's not going to weaken my resolve. I can resist her arguments. Bring it on.

"That day in the rain five years ago," she begins in a firm tone, "you saved my life. You helped me save Prim's life and my mother's. That day, I was at the end of my rope." She pauses, her gaze unfocusing for the briefest moment. "Just like the little boy in the woods – in the story I told you – you gave me what I needed. You gave me what my family needed."

I stare at her. That had not been what I'd expected her to say. Not even close.

"When you saw me that day, what did you do?" she tests me. "Did you hesitate to burn that bread? Did you try and think up excuses to not do anything? Did you try and pretend you hadn't seen me at all?"

I hadn't done any of those things. She'd needed help and I'd reacted. My memory is still perfectly clear on that.

Katniss answers for me, "Even though you knew what your mother would do, you dropped the bread in the fire, and then you gave it to me. You never even asked for anything in exchange. You just… did it."

My resolution to remain unmoved is dissolving.

"You always _help,"_ she whispers, "and you always will, because that's who you are."

My eyes are burning with tears as her hand slowly wraps around the back of my neck, her fingers sifting through the strands of hair curling over my nape.

"You are the boy in the meadow who answers every knock at his door. You're the boy who gives hope to strangers. You are a hero, Peeta Mellark. And that's why I was never able to talk to _you."_

I gape. My breath rattles shallowly in my chest. I realize that my eyes are overflowing when she presses a kiss to my wet cheek. My eyelids lower. My heart thunders. I'm struggling to breathe normally when I feel her hand lift from my neck to my forehead and gently push my hair back, combing her fingers through the strands. I remember how she'd touched me in the cave… and now I know that I haven't lost that. The Capitol had tried to take it, had tried to twist it to suit their purposes, but here it is again and it is _real._

I am overwhelmed.

I crumble.

I gather her close and bury my face in her neck as the weight of the past – every single regret – tumbles from my shoulders. My guilt parts like thinning rain clouds and hope shines through, relentless and breathtaking.

I should have known Katniss would be the one to free me. It was always going to be her, so I shouldn't be surprised.

"I've got you," she vows, speaking into my ear. "Just stay with me. No matter what," she implores.

I could never abandon her. Never. "No matter what," I swear. "I'm with you, together or apart. No matter what."

We hold onto each other until the alarm sounds and we have to re-board the train. I help her inside and she turns back to pull me up after her. I'm still unsteady on my artificial leg and I stumble against the walls of the corridor when the train shifts unexpectedly, but I'm smiling. Deep inside, I know I'm still hurt, still angry, still bleeding, but I also feel healed. Or maybe it's something else. Maybe it's strength. Katniss has revealed my own strength to me and I can bear the weight of the past more easily now.

She is amazing.

I hold her hand all the way back to the dining car. I hold her hand as we return to the window and watch the darkening world roll by. I hold her hand for as long as I can and I wonder what I can do to change things for her: I want to give her a choice. I want to break Snow's control over her. There must be a way in all of this. There must be.

I'll find it. _We'll _find it. Katniss and I are partners.

I brush my thumb over the back of her hand and she lets out a breath, her lashes fluttering. Our gazes meet and I don't hold back. I'll never hide how I feel about her and I love her more than anything. I love her and I want Katniss to be free to love me back. I want her to hold my hand not for the cameras but because she simply doesn't want to let go.

* * *

We have arrived at the end of "Courage and Sacrifice." If you enjoyed it, I hope you'll leave a note and let me know. I will treasure your feedback forever and ever, and I thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.

Yes, I've been tinkering with a sequel. Sort of. If you'd be interested in reading it, let me know! Your enthusiasm is my enthusiasm.

As for more recommendations, please check my bookmarks over on AO3 or my favorites here on - LOTS of great stuff there.


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